Murmurs from the Dying Sun
by Alma Gloriosa
Summary: PostOotP. Harry is trying just trying to deal with being a teenager in the midst of a war. But the ensuing events show him that he must reamin strong and learn to follow his heart if he wants to keep the world from crashing down upon him. Het and slash
1. A Hollow Form With Empty Hands

A/N: This story was begun well before HBP, but has undergone many changes since then. I'm hoping people will still want to read something new that completely disregards HBP. If not, please let me know (though I'll likely write it, anyway). It will probably be the first of a trilogy, and it contains both het and slash. Hope you enjoy, and please review!

Disclaimer:It all belongs to J.K. Rowling. I am not half the creative genius she is. Blah, blah, blah. Please don't sue me, I am a poor college student! Also, thanks to Tennyson for the title and quote.

Chapter One: A Hollow Form With Empty Hands

'_The stars,' she whispers, 'blindly run;  
A web is wov'n across the sky;  
From out waste places comes a cry,  
And murmurs from the dying sun:_

'_And all the phantom, Nature, stands —  
With all the music in her tone,  
A hollow echo of my own, —  
'A hollow form with empty hands.'  
Tennyson_

Harry awoke to a strangely familiar tapping sound from the first real sleep he'd had in a month. His senses tried to comprehend his surroundings, but his befuddled mind wasn't allowing for it. The long shadows that surrounded him looked like nothing more than dark blobs and the tapping seemed very far away and very near at the same time. Peeling off a sticky sheet, Harry sat up in bed and shook his head, as though the physical action would dispel the negative effects of the potion, and not make it worse. His vision clouded over completely as his body threatened to again fall into sleep, but with stillness it passed in a moment.

Reaching for his glasses on the bedside table, Harry slipped them on quickly, and it was like slipping seamlessly back into consciousness. He wasn't sure why, but his glasses seemed to act as a catalyst between him and the rest of the world. Putting them on in the morning, or the middle of the night as the case might have been, seemed to allow Harry to align himself to his surroundings. Likewise, taking them off was as good as trying to shut himself off from the rest of the world. The objects around him would become a blurry haze and his mind would immediately try to extradite itself from the outside world. Harry had become accustomed to what lay in his mind, and it was why he rarely took his glasses off. He had no desire and no necessity to explore the depths of an object that could be his undoing. Perhaps that was his first mistake.

Almost immediately after putting his glasses on, Harry came to the obvious conclusion that it must be Hedwig trying to get in through the window. He rushed to open it, both because she would be angry with him for leaving her out there for so long, and because he didn't need Uncle Vernon to be woken by the noise. Normally, he would have just left the window open so she could fly in and out as she pleased and a cool breeze would run through his room, but an early hot spell had hit Surrey and even when the sun was down the air was so stuffy and stagnant that keeping the window closed seemed a much better option. Allowing his snowy white owl to enter, Harry shut the window quickly again, figuring she'd had enough hunting for the night, and could relax until day. He still felt groggy and figured he might be able to fall back asleep if he lay down right away, but as he moved toward the bed, Hedwig let out a light hoot.

Harry spun back around, his eyes widening in panic. If Uncle Vernon had heard ... he could only hope that he, his bird, and his large uncle all made it through the night. "Hedwig, shh!" he whispered urgently, listening for some sound of movement from the other bedrooms.

After a good few minutes of complete silence and stillness, Harry was able to breathe again, albeit lightly. He turned to his bird, figured she must have hooted for a reason, and immediately noticed the letter she had for him. Why was she carrying a letter when she had gone out to hunt? Living with the Dursleys, barely coming out of his room, was taking its toll on Harry. He could hardly keep track of the day and it didn't help that he hardly slept. When you were awake to watch one day fall seamlessly into the next, it was hard to realize that you had been existing for an infinitely small amount of time compared to the feeling that you had been in one place forever and ever. But with letter in hand, the events of the night came flooding back into Harry's mind.

"_POTTER!"_

_Harry flinched as his uncle's yell wafted up the stairs to where Harry sat on his bed, chin resting on curled up knees. He had been thinking about Sirius, but there wasn't much new there. After the confrontation at King's Cross in June, Uncle Vernon had mostly left Harry alone, but he sounded especially cross that evening, and Harry wasn't looking forward to dinner, which the Dursleys now insisted he be present for every night._

_Sighing heavily, he uncurled himself and stood up on unsure legs. He slept so little that he never knew whether he would keep going like always or simply collapse under the weight of living. He managed to keep going, and descended the stairs where his aunt stood over the stove, stirring something in a pot._

_Uncle Vernon immediately noticed his nephew and grimaced. "Set the table, boy." Harry moved to do as he was told, but apparently he wasn't fast enough. "Hurry up, boy!"_

_Uncle Vernon grabbed his upper arm and spun Harry to face him. "You look terrible, boy. I know you've been staying up at night, reading those freak books of yours, writing letters to that psycho godfather of yours!"_

_Harry went white as a sheet. "Don't ever talk about my godfather," he said in a deathly cold voice._

"_What, he's finally realized what a horrible freak you are and given up on you like the rest of us?"_

_A shot of anger coursed through Harry's body and his pale color shifted to a dark fuchsia. He could feel his heart trying to pound right out of his chest as his breath became labored. His hands pulsated from the emotion within and the forks he had been holding went tumbling down to the floor._

"_Pick those up now!" Vernon roared._

_Ignoring him, Harry spoke. "I don't ever want to hear about my godfather from you! Never!" Harry shot him a look of hatred and for a moment, Vernon faltered._

_But he stood his ground, smiling evilly. "Or what, did they finally catch that raving lunatic murderer and put him back in jail where he belongs? If you ask me, they should just hang the good for nothing –"_

_He stopped when he saw the look on Harry's face, a hard, enraged, almost insane look not far from how Vernon imagined the boy's godfather must look. Harry tried to control his emotions, tried to tell himself that what Uncle Vernon said didn't mean anything, but a wave of rage flew through his body, just under his skin, and broke through the surface, releasing his magic to the world outside his being._

_Uncle Vernon looked terrified. Aunt Petunia screamed and jumped back as the burners on the oven flared up, fire catching the wooden cabinets. "Dudders!" she screamed. "Dudders, go outside!"_

_She ushered her child outside and ran for the pantry where Harry knew they kept a fire extinguisher. She ran out and began spraying the fire, as Vernon remained frozen, staring at the boy. Harry stared him down, unable to face the reality of what he had just done and what it might mean. He glanced to the side to see the last of the flames being put out by his aunt, and before his uncle could utter a word, he ran up the stairs and back to his bedroom, so many thoughts racing through his head that he almost felt dizzy._

_What was going to happen? He recalled the time he had accidentally blown up his Aunt Marge. He was fairly certain this was worse, as his entire family could have been killed. Yet he didn't see how they could punish him for accidental magic. He hadn't uttered a word and his wand had been safely tucked in his pocket where the Dursleys wouldn't be able to see it. But Minister Fudge was just looking for a reason to get to him, and setting the Dursleys' home on fire was a very good way to go about it._

_Harry collapsed onto his bed and curled up into a ball, trying to stop his heart from racing, trying to ignore the thoughts running through his mind. His stomach was clenched tightly and he felt like he may be sick, but he had no will to try and make it to the bathroom. He just laid there, eyes squeezed shut, wishing he were anywhere else, and waiting for a letter he was sure would arrive soon._

_But it didn't. He wrote a note to Ron and Hermione warning them that he was going to be expelled for accidental magic, but had no proof of the fact. Harry waited for an entire hour to receive an owl telling him he was expelled from Hogwarts, but it never came. Unable to bear it any longer, the pain, the sickness, everything, he found the Dreamless Sleep Draught that Hermione had sent him, and in moments, he had plunged into a dark, silent world where his past could no longer haunt him._

Pushing the thoughts out of his head, Harry rummaged quietly in a drawer for an owl treat, then took the letter over to his bed. It was clearly addressed to him, but with no indication as to who might have written it. It clearly wasn't from Hagrid, as it was actually legible, but it wasn't in Ron's messy scrawl or Hermione's sensible, stick straight hand either, and they were the only ones he had received owls from. These letters were slanted and lightly curving, and although it looked familiar to Harry, he couldn't figure out who it was from.

Slipping his fingers under the flap of the paper, Harry broke the wax seal that held it shut and carefully unfolded the creamy parchment. He scanned the letter, looking at it without reading it, from the top of the page to the bottom, where it was signed in a signature slightly messier than the text by Lupin. Suddenly afraid of what Lupin would have to say about his magical outburst that evening, Harry licked his lips, then performed the inevitable and began reading the letter.

_Dear Harry,_

_How are you holding up? Well, if tonight is any indication, not very well. I hope you're not angry with Ron and Hermione for telling us, but accidental magic in a wizard your age is a serious matter, and they had no other choice._

Harry hadn't expected that they would keep the fire a secret, even for him, and he had not asked them to do so. It would have only served to make them feel worse about going against his wishes, and besides, he was almost relieved that an adult would be informed of the situation. As much as he hated his relatives and living with them in Surrey, he didn't actually want to harm any of them. He just wanted them to stay out of his way. But deep inside him was some hidden anger, coloring all of his emotions and actions. And he was so afraid that he would no longer be able to carry such a burden.

_I also hope you won't be upset, but Hermione told me that you weren't sleeping well either. She did assure me that this has nothing to do with Voldemort, and said that she sent you potion to help you sleep. I hope that you have been taking it, for I hate to think of another losing sleep over this, and you need your rest, for the coming months will be difficult, especially on you, I imagine._

_But I suppose I should get to my main point. No matter whose fault it was, the fact remains that you performed accidental magic this evening. While the Ministry can't apprehend you as such, it is still an issue. Some of the Order members have discussed the situation, and we all agree that shutting you off in the muggle world alone, especially after recent events, was not the smartest move Dumbledore could have made. In any case, we do understand his logic, but we feel that the situation would only be exacerbated by you remaining with your relatives. If it is convenient for you, we wish to pick you up on Saturday morning and bring you back to Grimmauld Place. Trust me when I say that I know it won't be easy living here either, but the Weasleys are here and Hermione just arrived. I think it would do you good to be around people who care about you and will be there for you. I myself would like to be there for you, Harry, if you'll allow me to._

_So, if you are conducive, I will come to the Dursleys' on Saturday around ten o'clock in the morning with a few other Order members. Stay strong until then, and try to avoid your relatives, especially if you feel yourself losing control. Let me know if they have any issues with us arriving at that time, and I will deal with them. I look forward to seeing you again._

_Hang in there,  
Remus_

Harry breathed a sigh of relief upon reading the letter. Remus, it seemed, was not truly angry with him for losing his control earlier that day, but rather concerned about him. He paused over the line about another losing sleep, wondering just what Lupin had meant. It was difficult for Harry not to feel as though he was in more pain than anyone could imagine, as though no one had ever been through that which he had suffered, but Harry had to admit that if there was anyone who understood now, it would be Remus. Not only had the man suffered for years of his life because of his lycanthropy, and continued to suffer today, but his best friends in the world had thought he turned to the Dark Lord, and then he lived for twelve years thinking that James and Peter were dead and Sirius was the one who had betrayed them in the first place. Now, after finally discovering the truth, that he did have one true friend left in the world, he had lost him as well. Thinking that way, Harry almost felt guilty. At least he still had Ron and Hermione.

If only he could think about Lupin every time he began feeling depressed or angry or lonely or any of a million horrible things he felt daily. But all too often his thoughts took on a life of their own and he was never truly free of them. Thoughts of Sirius, wherever he was, hating Harry for what he did, hating him for causing his death. Hating Sirius for leaving him even though at the same time he knew it was his entire fault. Hating Voldemort for taking his parents away from him and hating them for leaving. Hating Peter for betraying his parents and hating his parents for not realizing that it had been the rat who had joined the ranks of Voldemort. Hating life, and wondering what would happen if he just stopped living. Not that he was contemplating suicide, just wondering what it would be like if he happened to just stop living, because sometimes he felt so overwhelmed by everything that he was sure his heart would stop beating and his lungs would stop wanting for oxygen. That his mind would shut down and his soul would flee, running as far away as it could from the mess that was Harry Potter.

He told himself every day that it was just the grief over losing Sirius that made him think such thoughts and feel such emotions. He told himself that it was natural to feel guilt but that Sirius's death wasn't really his fault. He never truly believed himself. He told himself that the pain was still too raw and he was too cut off from the world, living with people who ignored his existence. That once he got to Grimmauld Place with Hermione and Ron and the rest of the Weasleys, he could get through this, he could heal. But another part of him dreaded going, having to pretend to be all right. Sure, he knew his friends would expect him to be depressed and would want to be there for him. The thing was, they didn't understand what he needed. They didn't understand that being there for Harry didn't mean just listening to him talk through things until he felt better. It meant leaving him alone when he needed to be alone and just sitting with him when he couldn't talk about it. It meant listening to him when he was ready to talk and realizing that he didn't always mean everything he said when he was upset. It meant accepting him when he was in a good mood but understanding when he reverted back into his moody ways, understanding that not every day was going to be a good day.

It meant, most of all, letting Harry be the Harry he was growing into, and not trying to force him to be the Harry they had once known. You didn't lose your godfather and stay the same person. You didn't watch Voldemort return and you didn't watch a handsome, successful boy being killed in an instant by one of his servants and remain the same. He knew Ron and Hermione understood that in theory. He knew they tried. He knew he couldn't ask for better friends, but sometimes he wanted to. Sometimes he wanted friends who understood what it was like to mess up as badly as he had. Sometimes he wanted friends who understood that dark side of his thoughts, the side that found it harder to choose good over bad, to choose love over hate.

The letter from Remus, which he had set in his lap, now fluttered to the ground as he jumped up from the bed. Leaning down on the floor, Harry pulled up the loose floorboard where he still kept his most precious of possessions and pulled out the photo album that Hagrid had given him at the end of his first year. He was always afraid that if he didn't hide it, the Dursleys would find some way to ruin it, the only thing Harry truly had to remind him of his parents, besides a haunting, chilling memory that made his blood run cold even as he wished to remember.

Harry turned slowly through the pages of his album. As usual, his eyes couldn't help but catch on the images of his parents, his father looking so very much like Harry himself, his mother's emerald eyes shining just like Harry's did when he was truly happy. But now Harry was not focusing on his parents. He was focusing on another man, who appeared in almost half the pictures, a man with silky black hair, a broad smile, and youthful good looks that held little resemblance to the man Harry had known and loved. There was one of Sirius and James together seemingly before the wedding, as they looked to be in Madame Malkin's or a similar shop, being fitted for dress robes. Next, one of the four Marauders, Remus and Sirius embracing Peter like a brother as James eclipsed them all from behind acting goofy. And then there was one simply broke Harry's heart to look at, of his parents and Sirius. His parents were standing together, posing for the photograph when Sirius suddenly ran into the frame, bumping into James, who had to catch Lily to prevent her from falling. And while Harry's father held his mother tenderly in his arms, looking softly into her eyes, Sirius laughed at the camera, demanding attention. These were the people who were supposed to be asleep in the next room over, who were supposed to be worried about Harry because he wasn't sleeping and not just getting angry with him for being tired. These were the people he had been denied because of Voldemort and Peter, and his own brazen stupidity. His parents he had never known, and they were more like idols in his mind than the way a child normally thinks of his parents. But Sirius had been real to him, and if he had entered Harry's life belatedly, he had made up for it in his fierce and loyal caring. And what had Harry done to repay him? He had practically signed his death certificate.

Bitterness rose up in him, and tears stung at his eyes. It's not fair, he thought. Of course, life was never fair. If it was, Harry would have both of his parents and Voldemort would be dead and Peter would be in Azkaban with Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy, and perhaps then Malfoy wouldn't be such an arrogant git. If nothing else, Sirius would still be at Grimmauld Place, writing Harry letters and promising that they would see each other soon. What had he done to deserve this? Been the subject of some prophecy? Why hadn't Voldemort just chosen Neville?

Lashing out at the only thing he could, Harry tore the picture up from its spot in the album and ripped it in half before he had a chance to convince himself otherwise. The occupants of the photo were disrupted and disturbed by what was happening. Harry couldn't stand to look at them and so he didn't. He tore it in half again, and again. Every time the paper made the terrible ripping sound, he felt some horrid relief inside, as though destroying the evidence would erase the memories from his mind. And he kept ripping, until the entire photograph was lying on the floor in tiny little pieces. He wanted to cry out, to scream, to yell, but held it in, curling on the bed as angry sobs wrenched his body. Harry gasped for air, but it hurt too much. He was alone in the world, all alone, or so he felt. Somewhere inside, he knew that Ron and Hermione loved him and cared about him. He knew that Dumbledore and Remus adored him; he knew that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would be there for him. But where were they now? They weren't with Harry, none of them were there to hold him as he cried, to soothe the pain away. They were asleep in their own beds. The Weasleys were with their family, and as much as he wished it, that didn't include him.

Deep down inside himself, Harry was entirely alone. There was no one who could share with him the infinite sorrow, the infinite pain embedded in his soul. There was no one who could understand the perverse joy he had felt in hearing his parents as they died, simply because he was hearing them. And Harry knew, he knew, that, even though he fought for the side of light and always would, no one would understand that there was an infinite darkness that Voldemort had forced into him, a black hole that was the core of Harry Potter.


	2. Eating You Alive

Disclaimer: It all belongs to J.K. Rowling. I am not half the creative genius she is. Blah, blah, blah. Please don't sue me, I am a poor college student!

Murmurs from the Dying Sun

Chapter Two: Eating You Alive

_Yeah, I feel your anger_

_Can't you realize it's eating you alive?_

_Pink Cream 69_

Saturday morning dawned slowly and quietly. The oppressing heat of the week had worn off and with this Harry's mood had improved, if only enough that he didn't think he would start a fire again. Unless perhaps Uncle Vernon were to mention Sirius's name, but Harry didn't think that was likely, especially since he was avoiding his uncle at all costs. In fact, the only time Harry had actually spoken to his relatives was to inform them he would be leaving and that there would be wizards coming to get him on Saturday morning. He had been informed by Uncle Vernon that they were taking Dudley and a friend to the beach on Saturday, and that he was lucky they'd already made plans. He'd meant to sound intimidating, but there was a quaver in his voice that belied a newly found fear of his nephew. Harry, just relieved that he would be leaving without a hassle, didn't notice anything different, and disappeared back upstairs to haunt Dudley's second bedroom, as he still often thought of it.

The Dursleys left home around eight o'clock on Saturday, which gave Harry plenty of time to clean up and pack before he had to be ready. He scurried around his room, trying to make sure he remembered all of his clothes and books. Luckily, he hadn't felt like reading much so most of his books were still packed away in his trunk, along with all of his Hogwarts robes and equipment, except his wand, which never left his person, not even when he was sleeping. Especially not when he was sleeping. Most nights found him with the wand clenched tightly in his hand, held just beneath the covers so that an intruder would not know he had it so readily accessible. Paranoid, perhaps, but it paid to be safe. _Constant vigilance_, as Moody would say.

Harry finally dragged his trunk downstairs with a little time to spare and waited in the living room for Lupin and the others to arrive. But ten o'clock arrived and passed, bringing no sign of any Order members. Harry stared out the window at the sky. Gray clouds were beginning to hide the sun, giving the day a dreary look and a nice rain was sure to come. Where were they? It wasn't like his old professor to be late, and Harry could only imagine what the Dursleys would say if they showed up to find him still there when they thought he'd be gone until the next summer. Worse, he imagined how he would feel if he had to see them again before escaping.

When eleven o'clock came, Harry retreated back to the kitchen. He hadn't been hungry when he woke up the morning, but he was beginning to feel an empty gnawing in his stomach, and though he wasn't entirely sure that it wasn't just from feeling nervous about why no one had arrived yet, he thought it was a good idea to eat something. Goodness knew he'd already lost a bit of weight in the few weeks since he'd been back in Surrey, and he knew that Mrs. Weasley would try to "put some meat on his bones" the instant she saw him. He lazily made a cheese sandwich and ate most of it before the doorbell rang suddenly around half past the hour.

Having assumed that his rescuers would Apparate in, Harry wondered who it could be at the door and whether or not he should answer it, but curiosity got the better of him and he found himself wandering towards the door. He was beyond shocked to see Professor Lupin standing on the stoop along with Bill Weasley and a woman he vaguely remembered as Emmeline Vance. They were all dressed in muggle attire, which Harry found quite amusing, especially on Lupin. He stood back from the doorway to let them enter.

Lupin stepped in first, his eyes carefully studying Harry in a way that screamed out his concern for the boy. "I apologize for the delay, Harry," he said as Bill and Emmeline joined him inside.

"Yes, sorry we kept you waiting," Bill added. "We ran into a few ... problems ... on the way over."

The three of them all looked amused if not a little embarrassed. "Meaning ...?" Harry asked.

Lupin chuckled. "Dumbledore decided it was best if we picked you up using muggle methods, but as it stands, none of us are exactly schooled in the art of driving."

"Driving a car isn't in itself exactly difficult," Bill protested.

Harry glanced out the window nervously to see a bright purple sedan sitting in the Dursleys driveway, unsure of whether to laugh at the thought that it was in clear view of all the neighbors, or worry at the fact that he was actually expected to trust his life with Bill driving the car. It wasn't that he didn't think Bill knew how to work the car itself, on the contrary, he and Ron had figured it out when they were twelve, but "driving" through the air was very different from driving on a system of roads that even made little sense to the muggles who used them every day.

"No, it's just the roadways that cause a few problems," Vance put in, a twinkle in her eye. "Honestly, where do muggles come up with some of these things? Those things they hang above intersections, that light up in different colors ...?" Harry nodded to confirm that he knew what she was talking about. "Honestly," she said again, shaking her head.

He swallowed. "Well, I mean, I'm not old enough to have a driver's license yet, but I can sit in the front and help you navigate, I think I remember a few things."

"Perfect," Lupin agreed cheerfully. "Are you all ready to go, then, Harry? Best be off, we're running late as it is."

Harry was about to agree when suddenly noticed that his professor's grin was slightly forced, and felt a well of guilt deep inside. He simply nodded, and followed his protectors out to the car as Bill hefted his trunk out, and then began off, carrying Harry away from the home of his aunt and uncle, the home of his childhood.

* * *

An eventful car ride later, Harry found himself approaching Grimmauld Place from down the street, a Disillusionment charm covering him until he was in the safe haven of the house. It was just beginning to drizzle when Lupin pushed open the door to the home – without knocking, Harry noticed, realizing Sirius's mother must be as repulsive as ever. Of course, that made him think of Sirius, not that he could have avoided it when entering his deceased godfather's home, and that put a bit of a damper on his mood, which had risen slightly since in the company of other wizards. 

A hush fell over the group as they entered the house, as though they were all expecting Harry to have a breakdown or something. Truthfully, he had to swallow back his emotions to keep from having a visible reaction, but his stomach continued to churn. He wasn't ready for this, but he had no other options, besides staying with the Dursleys, which, in Harry's mind, wasn't an option at all. He could taste bile in the back of his throat and was now fighting the impulse to turn around and run back outside. This house, everything about it, brought back emotions that tugged at his senses and threatened to throw his world even more deeply into the chaos he felt inside. He was surprised at a sudden feeling of warmth before he realized that it must have been Lupin, taking off the spell. He was about to thank him when a voice interrupting the somewhat eerie silence.

"Where _have_ you been?" Harry would have recognized the shrill voice of an angry Mrs. Weasley anywhere. He was reminded immediately of the Howler Ron had received at the beginning of second year, and might have looked around for another if not for the demanding presence of the redheaded woman. "You're over an hour late! I knew we should have sent someone older, more experienced!"

Bill looked offended, Vance looked indifferent, and Lupin just chuckled. "Now, Molly, clearly, I'm old enough to be Harry's father. I'm very sorry if you worried, but you needn't have. Harry was in good hands, there were just a few extenuating circumstances that held us up," he explained kindly.

Mrs. Weasley looked like she might explode, as her face took on a shade of red that Harry recognized from Ron's own angry or embarrassed moments. "You, you, and you," she said, pointing in turn to Lupin, Vance, and Bill, "in the sitting room, now! I'll be in as soon as I get Harry here a nice cup of tea. You'd like a cup of tea, wouldn't you, Harry dear?" she asked kindly, turning to him.

Harry had just opened his mouth to reply when the echo of a familiar female voice came wafting down the stairs, followed by a second, equally familiar male voice. Ron appeared at the top of the stairs a moment later and raced down the steps with Hermione at his heels.

"Harry, mate! It's good to see you here," he said, sounding distinctly more serious than was usual for him.

Harry gave his friend the best smile he could manage and turned to Hermione, who simply looked back at him for a moment before throwing her arms around him, holding him tightly. With little other choice, Harry hugged her back, completely aware that his cheeks were burning but unaware as to why he was so embarrassed about it.

"I'm so glad you're safe," Hermione told him quietly as she finally let him go.

Suspiciously, Harry looked from one friend to the other, then over to Mrs. Weasley. Her eyes were filled with a worry and concern he hadn't noticed before.

"All right, what's going on?" he asked, looking at her almost accusingly. He glanced over at Remus, assuming his old professor was in on it as well, but he was surprised to find confusion in the man's eyes matching Harry's own. "What is it that you're not telling me?"

Mrs. Weasley sent a stern look at Ron and Hermione, as though they had disobeyed her simply by greeting Harry enthusiastically, then sighed. "Oh, I suppose it won't stay a secret, anyway." She shook her head with what Harry would almost call disappointment. "Last night, Voldemort persuaded the rest of the Dementors from Azkaban. They're now all out of Ministry control, and with their departure, the Death Eaters caught back in June have all escaped."

Harry suddenly understood why Mrs. Weasley had been so upset when they had arrived so late. She hadn't been truly angry with them, but rather worried instead. And though Harry knew that she had every right to be worried, as did Hermione and Ron, he couldn't help feeling angry. He wasn't a helpless child, and he'd been with three mature, adult wizards. How would he ever be able to fulfill the prophecy if everyone was always treating him like a delicate piece of china that might break under the smallest amount of pressure. He scowled at the thought, but everyone else seemed to think that his reaction was a response to the news he'd just been given.

"I know, dear, I feel the same way," Mrs. Weasley told him. "How about that cup of tea?"

Harry studied her concerned face and suddenly, he wanted to be anywhere but with his best friend's mother, the woman he'd often wished was his aunt instead of the horrible Petunia. He glanced over to Remus again. The man was studying Harry with a pained look on his face, but when he realized Harry's gaze had moved in his direction, he lowered his eyes to the ground.

"I'm not really thirsty," Harry replied lightly. His eyes were still focused on Remus, but when he had finished speaking he looked back over at the plump, red-headed woman guiltily.

Mrs. Weasley didn't know exactly how to respond to that. She looked a bit affronted that Harry didn't want any of her comforting tea, but bit back any remarks suggesting her feelings. "Well, then, perhaps something to eat, dear? A sandwich or some biscuits?"

Harry shook his head quickly. "I'm sorry, I think ... I'd rather be alone," he replied.

In the background, Remus sighed while Mrs. Weasley frowned at him. "Well, Harry dear, if you're sure ..." She was the one who sounded unsure. "I suppose it would be fine for you to go upstairs and unpack. But if you need anything at all, you come find me. There's going to be an Order meeting a bit later, but come down any time before that and I'll get you something."

Harry nodded his reply, knowing he most likely wouldn't be down to ask her for anything. In fact, he probably wouldn't go down at all. He didn't want to face all of the Order members who would be arriving. He didn't want any looks of pity from those who knew how close he'd been to Sirius. He didn't want to have to ask Tonks how she was doing, and he especially didn't want to come face to face with his most hated professor. If he wasn't allowed to be present at the meeting, then he wanted no part in the whole affair. He would hide away upstairs until everyone else was gone.

"Come on, Harry, we'll help you get your things upstairs," Ron offered.

He turned to face his friends and found Hermione in agreement. Clearly they hadn't realized that he had been including them in his wish to be alone, but he had neither the will nor the energy to correct them. Instead, he looked back to the adults. Mrs. Weasley continued to look worried and Remus continued to look pained, but neither protested. Instead, Remus stepped forward and laid a hand softly on Harry's shoulder.

"It'll be alright," he said slowly, and Harry realized that he was not referring to the situation with the Dementors and Azkaban. "I'll talk to you later, ok? We'll talk later."

"Fine," Harry replied, and turned away.

He picked up Hedwig's cage and, without another word, ascended the stairs just behind Ron and Hermione, who had his trunk in tow. He followed them into the same room he and Ron had stayed in the previous summer. It seemed different now. Perhaps it was simply because this was now Sirius's house without Sirius in it, or perhaps it was because the room felt cleaner and had a couple of Ron's favorite Chudley Cannon's posters on the walls. Whatever the case was, Harry set Hedwig's cage down on the floor beside his bed and collapsed onto it, staring at the ceiling and ignoring the expectant looks from Ron and Hermione.

"Well, don't you want to hear the details, mate?" Ron asked.

Harry gave a little groan as he rolled onto his side to face his friends. "You have details?" he asked skeptically, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

"Only a few," Hermione said.

"And something else to tell you," Ron told him. "About the ..."

He was cut off by a sharp knock at the door. Both he and Harry simply stared at it until Hermione stood and went to see who it was, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "lazy boys, can't do _anything_ for themselves."

It turned out that Ginny was the one who had knocked, not one of the adults. Hermione allowed her entrance and shut the door quickly. Ginny bounded over to the bed and plopped down beside Ron where Hermione had been sitting.

"Have you guys told him?" she asked quickly.

"He knows," Ron replied.

"And about ...?"

"No," Ron replied.

"What's going on Ron?" Harry asked. There was a sadness in his friend's eyes that he wasn't accustomed to see, and for the moment, it made him forget that the Dementors had revolted and that Voldemort had his inner circle back fully intact.

"Ginny and I have something else we think you should know."

"It's about the Burrow," Ginny explained.

Ron leaned forward off the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and looking down into his hands instead of speaking directly to Harry's face. "See ... we're not just staying here because it's Order headquarters, or because it's not safe for you at the Burrow, but because we don't think it's safe for any of us."

Harry kneaded his eyebrows. "What do you mean, it's not safe for you?"

Ron looked up from his hands to look at Harry, who was surprised to see a worried look in his friend's eyes. "I guess I should start out with last summer. Right after the tournament, after ... You-Know-Who returned, my parents decided the Burrow needed stronger wards. Dumbledore helped them, but they set it up so that the only way the wards could be changed was by a family member. So we put up the wards and sort of forget about them."

He sighed and shifted positions, studying Harry before he spoke again. "After school ended, because of the whole thing in the Ministry and everything, Mum and Dad decided to make sure the wards were still strong and everything, but when they tried to check them, they were gone. Not just down, or not working, but simply not there. Nonexistent. The only way that could have happened is if ... well, if a family member removed them."

Harry didn't know what to say or think. He was having trouble processing most of what Ron had said besides the fact that Ron and his family were no longer safe in their own home, and were just as much refugees at Grimmauld Place as Harry was himself. But as Ron's words began to sink in, he realized that the situation was even worse that he'd originally took it to be. He looked desperately over at Ginny, hoping she would tell him that Ron was only joking.

Instead, she spoke only one word. "Percy."

It was exactly what Harry had been expecting, but somehow it was different when spoken aloud. It made the possibility too real.

"But, he wouldn't, would he?" Harry asked, looking back at Ron. "Percy wouldn't; he couldn't."

Ron chuckled bitterly. "Unfortunately, he probably could. And who knows whether or not he would. We haven't spoken to him in almost a year, except for that stupid letter he sent me about you, Harry. Who knows what kind of a crowd he hangs around these days."

Harry's eyes widened. "But surely ... you can't mean that. You really think he's ...?"

He stared at Ron, waiting for his friend's response, but all he got back was an equally stricken look. It was bad enough for Harry to know that a boy he'd once considered something of a friend might have turned to Voldemort, but for Ron, it was the knowledge that one of his older brothers, the older brothers he'd always idolized, might have taken a drastically wrong turn in life.

"He could be, Harry," Hermione said softly. "He's always been ambitious. If this was the only way he thought he could get the power he wanted ... and Voldemort might consider it an accomplishment, getting a follower from a pure-blooded family that works so hard against him."

Harry didn't want to believe what he was hearing, but unfortunately, he could. Everything Hermione said made sense, and although that wasn't unusual, it was disconcerting in such a context. He wished there were no convincing pieces of evidence, no logical explanations for why a Weasley would take the Dark Mark. But they were staring him in the face.

Was nothing sacred any longer? Was brother plotted against brother an inevitability of war that could not be avoided? Harry was horrified at the thought that Ron and Percy might meet in battle some day. What if Ron had to kill Percy to save his own life, or, worse, to save Harry's? Would Ron ever forgive Harry for that? Even if Percy had turned away from all the things Ron believed in, they would still always be brothers. But he was being presumptuous, he knew. The wards at the Burrow were gone, and suddenly they all had Percy pinned as a Death Eater. Surely there was another explanation.

But an image formed in Harry's mind, as vivid as the day it had happened. He couldn't forget it because he was forced to remember it every night in his dreams, Sirius and Bellatrix dueling, Sirius's cockiness, and then his shock as he had fallen through the archway. Another family, torn between sides of a battle. Bellatrix had won the battle between Blacks. Would Percy win the battle between Weasleys?

"Harry? Are you all right?"

Harry broke through his memory of Sirius and looked over at Hermione. She was studying him with what amounted to little more than worry, and he had to fight back the rude comments that popped into his mind, telling her just what she could do with her concern.

"Fine. I'm fine," he replied.

He glanced over at Ron and Ginny sitting together on the bed with familiar heads of flaming hair and sad blue eyes, then looked away again. He couldn't look at them, because he didn't know what to say to them.

"Well, there's something else I think you should know ... something that I think could be important." She looked at him sideways. "About Snape."

Harry narrowed his eyes. He didn't want to hear anything about Snape. He wasn't looking forward to knowing that come time for the Order meeting, he was going to be under the same roof as the man, and the only thing consoling him was the fact that he wouldn't have to leave the bedroom until the meeting was over and everyone, especially Snape, had left.

"What about Snape?" he asked sullenly.

Hermione frowned, but held back any chastising comments she might have made. "Snape came here this morning, he arrived just after Remus and the others had left to get you. He'd meant to stop them from going, because of what happened."

"You mean something was supposed to happen? To me?" Harry's mouth went dry and he forgot about Snape for a moment.

"Well, no. I mean, we don't really know. That is, Snape didn't know. He didn't know anything that was supposedly to happen after last night's escape." She paused, wondering if Harry knew what she was trying to say. "Voldemort sent him back to Hogwarts to make Veritaserum."

Harry stared at her for a moment. "So? Why did he assume we were in danger because of that? He's apparently so good at Potions, why wouldn't Voldemort ask him to make potions for him?"

Hermione sighed deeply, remembering about how she'd had to explain it to Ron after Snape had left in a hurry. "He's a Potions _master_, Harry. And doesn't it seem at all odd to you that right now, when he finally has his followers back, he's sending Snape off to make _Veritaserum_?"

Harry kneaded his eyebrows for one brief moment, but enlightenment was not to be found. He shook his head.

"First of all, Veritaserum doesn't seem like something that Voldemort would need urgently ... he would keep it around in case he ever needed it, not send Snape off to make it at the last minute. And anyway, Voldemort's a skilled Legilimens. He can search a person's mind without the help of any potion."

Harry repeated Hermione's words in his mind, but the realization was quick in dawning. "You mean ... you think ... Voldemort knows?" he asked.

"It seems that either Voldemort knows that Snape is a spy for Dumbledore, or we're all being unreasonably paranoid," she replied.

Harry was silent, considering this, but Ron was quick to break the silence. "There's a third option, you know." Both Harry and Hermione looked up at him sharply, while Ginny's gaze rose to her brother slowly. "He could be lying to _us_. Maybe he knows something's supposed to happen but he's trying to distract us all. Maybe he's been a Death Eater this whole time, playing off of Dumbledore."

"I don't know, Ron ..." Ginny said, hoping her brother wouldn't murder her for disagreeing over something about Snape, a very touchy subject with him.

"I do," Harry said. "Of course. Wouldn't that just top it all? It makes sense though, doesn't it? Playing off of Dumbledore's trust, doing just enough to help that no one suspects him. And last year, weakening my mind so Voldemort could come right in while making it seem like a side effect of Occlumency."

Hermione could no longer hold back. "When are you two going to stop being so immature and asinine? Snape is a member of the Order of the Phoenix, he's a spy for Dumbledore, and he's never done anything but his best to help us without giving his cover away."

"Exactly, Hermione! He's always managed to keep his cover, hasn't he?" Ron exclaimed accusingly.

Hermione groaned so fiercely it almost sounded as though she were growling. "Why am I friends with such idiots? Snape may truly not like any of us, but he's on our side in this war. And for either of you to suggest otherwise in such a blatant matter is simply disrespectful! I really ought to tell your mother, Ron. She won't like it that either of you are speaking like that about a professor."

Ron's face immediately became heated as he realized that Hermione was exactly right. Not about, of course, her presumption that Snape was so innocent or not, but that his mother would have his hide for saying those things about Snape. He promptly shut his mouth and vowed not to speak of such things again ... in front of Hermione, anyway.

Harry remained silent for another reason. He remained silent as ire built up at Hermione's words and Ron's own silence. How could she trust Snape so blindly. It was common knowledge to them that he _had_ once willing taken the Dark Mark with the intention of serving Voldemort. Why was it now so inconceivable for him to be doing so? And he had to be the most unpleasant person Harry had ever met. Even that was a gross understatement. Snape's words, attitude, and actions, amassed together, made him much more revolting than "unpleasant" could ever imply.

Yet in Harry's mind, there was one thing that made Snape worse than any other individual thing could have: his deep hatred for the one person who had ever been like a parent to Harry, a hatred so deep that Snape preferred to see an innocent man dead for his childhood sins. An innocent man who was needed more than Snape ever could have known. Harry couldn't even explain his connection to Sirius past the fact that he simply felt unnatural now that Sirius was gone. It was as though his godfather had fallen through the veil so shocked to have taken a fatal hit that he had latched onto Harry and managed to strip away the layers of good and leave only his bare, open weaknesses for the world to see.

"How can you defend him to me?" His voice was quiet, but none of them could have mistaken it for soft. It was hard and cold with a sharpness that cut through the remaining bonds of civility between friends. "How can you look past the fact that from the moment he saw me he has done nothing but hurt me? He ridicules me without even trying to look past my messy hair and glasses to see that who I am inside is not James Potter. He hates everyone and everything that I love. Sure, he's kept me alive; he's saved my life so that I'll still have to be here to watch everyone around me die simply because they once dared to care about Harry Potter. He wants to make sure I know that I don't deserve to live when I've cause so many others to die!

"Oh, fuck Merlin, Hermione, he practically killed Sirius himself!" He was shouting by this time and as red in the face as Ron, though it wasn't quite as impressive against his black hair as against Ron's. "He knew what I was saying in Umbridge's office and he didn't even try to do a thing about it. Oh, sure, when he realized we might go get ourselves killed he called in for help, can't let the Boy Who Bloody Lived die, now could he? But he sure as hell had no qualms about sending Sirius off to battle so he could die trying to save me!"

He stopped then, realizing that both Ron and Hermione were pale and staring at him through wide eyes. They were both as surprised by his sudden outburst as he himself was. Only Ginny seemed unaffected, still sitting on Ron's bed with her knees pulled up to her chin. She was not looking at Harry but simply studying the wall, deep in thought as though she were simply waiting for Harry to finish. He swung his eyes back to Ron and Hermione, who still hadn't said a word and the anger which had never really left him came back in a wave.

"How can you sit there and yell at me for stating the very real possibility that Snape has played us all, after everything he's done? You have no right, Hermione! … He's not coming back. Fuck! Sirius can't ever come back! Do you think you want to rub it in my face a little more? Screw it, no one has any right to tell me about Snape, especially not a little know it all like you!" he spat at her. "You think you're the next bloody Merlin because you've got your head in a book all the time? Well, guess what, genius, you don't really know anything! You and Snape can both just go to bloody hell together for all I care!"

His eyes had not left Hermione during the entire rant, and so he saw her lean back as though she had been slapped when he spoke his last words. He stood rooted to the spot, fire pulsing through his veins as he stared at her, hardly comprehending exactly what had happened. Hermione's face was now white and she studied him with something akin to horror in her eyes. Yet the worst part, by far, was the fact that Harry felt no remorse for what he'd said. She was wrong for what _she_ had said, and Harry knew it was not just pride stopping him from asking for her forgiveness, but the knowledge that he had meant what he said.

The silence hung lightly over them, threatening to revolt at any time, Hermione's jaw moving up and down lightly as though she had temporarily forgotten how to form words. Harry stole a glance over at Ron and found his friend looking almost as horror-struck as Hermione and equally unable to speak. Yet his eyes pled with Harry in a way that Hermione's did not, begging him to understand that they weren't trying to hurt him, that they actually wanted to be there for him. As much as Harry wanted to break the gaze, he found he couldn't look away, Ron's eyes boring into him, demanding an admission of his own guilt. Demanding Harry to realize that sitting in front of him were not two enemies but two friends who ultimately would condemn Snape if it was the only way to make him truly happy.

"Ron, Hermione, I ..."

He didn't know what to say, and was thankfully saved by a loud rapping on the door. It swung open before any of them had a chance to answer it or even to call out to the person, or, as it was, people, on the other side, and two identical redheads leapt into the room. They looked good, wearing the same dragonhide coats they'd been wearing in Diagon Alley and impressive looking boots that Harry was sure must be newer. Matching mischievous smiles adorned their faces, but they faded quickly as the Weasley twins surveyed the scene before them, looking back and forth between their two youngest siblings, Hermione, and Harry.

"All right," George spoke up.

"Who's got the bee in their bonnet?" Fred asked.

Everyone was still and silent for a long moment, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny looking around at each other and not knowing what to do, while Harry chose to stare at the floor. Ron was the first to recover. He jumped up from his seat on the bed, color returning to his face remarkably quickly as he approached the brothers he had idolized even more than usual ever since they'd busted out of Hogwarts on restricted broomsticks, leaving a swamp as a reminder of the legacy they had created at school.

"Fred! George! How are you guys?" Ron asked enthusiastically. "How's the shop?"

"Business is good, Ronniekins, business is good," George replied, turning up the collar on his coat and strutting father into the room.

Ron wrinkled up his nose at the nickname. "How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that," he whined under his breath.

Hermione could see a family argument coming on and decided to head it off. "You guys are here for the Order meeting, then?" she asked, dutifully changing the subject. "Dumbledore finally agreed to let you join?"

"'Course he did," George told her. "Though ..."

"It was more like getting Mum to agree to let us join," Fred finished. "That woman ... I swear she could scare You-Know-Who himself if she had time to get started before he began with Unforgivables."

Ginny nodded her head and muttered in agreement while Ron simply paled a bit more. Harry was guessing that he'd had some sort of run-in with Mrs. Weasley since arriving home from Hogwarts. If Harry was correct, and he was pretty sure that he was, he would say it would have something to do not only with Ron's participation in a DADA group she had expressly forbidden him to join and his defiance to a certain professor, albeit a terrible one working for the Ministry as indiscreetly as possible, but also with the fact that he had gone into the Forbidden Forest to fly to London on restricted creatures, broken into a private wing of the Ministry, and helped Harry essentially steal something, while almost getting killed in the process. Yes, Harry could see that Mrs. Weasley surely would have a few choice words to say to her youngest son. And, of course, it was all Harry's fault. It was he who'd been too stupid to see that Voldemort was trying to trick him, he who had been so reckless as to lead his closest friends into a dangerous situation that might have gotten them killed, which, in all likelihood, should have gotten them killed. Once again, Harry's sheer dumb luck had managed to save him, and thankfully, it had deigned to include his friends as well.

Sighing, Harry looked back over at Fred and George. "So, what's going on now? What do you know?"

George laughed so that Fred was left to answer. "No more than you, my friend."

A realization dawned upon Ron, who always did catch onto things a bit more slowly. "But you will, right? You'll know what's going on after the meeting?"

"Of course we will, you dope," George teased.

"Unless we decide to take a nap," Fred continued. "But somehow I really don't think we'd like Mum's reaction to _that_."

"So you'll tell us then," Ginny concluded. Even as the youngest child, she still hadn't gotten used to being left out of things, and it didn't seem to matter to her that she wasn't the only one, nor was she the only one upset by it.

"Alas, no can do, little sis," Fred replied with a shrug. "We cannot."

"What do you mean, of course you can!" Ron protested with a scowl. "Stop being prats and just do it."

"Ron, you can't demand something like that," Hermione chastised. "They're probably not allowed to tell anyone who isn't in the Order, and they'd get into trouble if anyone found out."

"And knowing Mum, she would," Ginny grumbling, admitting defeat as she folded her arms and pouted on the bed.

"Actually, it's a bit more complicated than that," George put in. "We literally can't."

"See, Mum figured that we'd run to tell you guys everything as soon as we found out, so she made Dumbledore put a charm on us," Fred explained.

"Anything told to us officially by an Order member can only be repeated to another Order member unless explicitly stated otherwise," George finished. "So you see, it's out of our control. We can't tell you."

Hermione frowned at this news, remaining silent as she contemplated what it might mean. While it was clear enough that they still didn't trust Harry, Ron, and her with information, it was also clear that they didn't really trust Fred and George either, which Hermione thought was odd. Why would they let the twins join the Order if they felt uncertain enough to actually place charms on them? Was the Order really so desperate for members in the fight against Voldemort, or was it only with the twins' little brother and his friends that their intentions were being questioned? Hermione hoped for the sake of the Order that they weren't admitting members they couldn't fully depend on, while on the other hand noting that, despite their impish natures, when it truly came down to it, she would trust them with her life. They were truly Weasleys, and Gryffindors, to the core.

Meanwhile, Ron slouched on the bed opposite her, looking quite depressed that his genius idea had been shot down so quickly. Harry was the only one who seemed to be getting angry over the news. He sat on the edge of the bed, his back rigid and his knuckles whit from gripping the bed post so tightly. His lips were one thin, straight line and a rage clouded his normally clear, bright eyes, eerily bring the dark, dangerous green of the Forbidden Forest to Hermione's mind. For one fearful moment, she was afraid that Harry was going to target Fred and George as he had done to her only minutes before, but she quickly realized that this time, his ire was directed at someone very distinct from the red-headed twins.

"It's not fair," he stated through clenched teeth. "No. Let me rephrase that. Dumbledore is a bloody arse!"

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, shocked. She knew she probably shouldn't have been, but she'd honestly had no knowledge of the great extent of Harry's colorful vocabulary.

Harry quickly spun on her. "Would you stop?" he hissed. "I'm sick of everyone thinking that just because he's powerful means he's perfect. I'm sick of thinking that myself. It's not true! Who does he think he's helping by not telling us anything that's going on? If anything he's just helping Voldemort by forcing me to be some innocent, stupid boy who doesn't even know what's going on around him! Doesn't he realize that he's only causing more problems?" Harry yelled desperately to his friends.

Hermione looked at him sadly. Anything she had been feeling before was now replaced with sadness and pity. All his life, Harry had been looking for someone he could truly trust and depend on, and one by one everyone who might have filled that role had disappointed him. Everyone, she realized, except for her and Ron, who were as helpless as Harry when it came to Voldemort, with as little information as Harry and probably less skill in fighting. Yet she couldn't help but wonder whether he was overreacting to all this. In the end, he was still an underage wizard, and knowing what Voldemort was planning would just as likely lure Harry into danger as not knowing anything. Her best friend simply had a knack for trouble.

Harry saw the look in her eyes and this only made him angrier. "Merlin!" He bit his lip roughly. "Sirius would still be alive if it weren't for him! If Dumbledore had told me what was going on earlier, I would have known it was a trap and I wouldn't have gone. And Sirius never would have had to come and save us, and he'd be here right now telling Dumbledore how stupid and harmful all this is! How many people are going to have to die before he realizes that he's wrong?" He paused and looked over at Hermione. And even though he registered that what he was saying was cruel, he couldn't seem to stop himself. "What if it was you, Hermione? We all know how they love to target muggle-borns." He stopped and looked over at Ron, unsurprised at the horror on his friend's face. Even the twins were paler than usual. "How about you guys? What would you do if it was your little sister?" Ginny let out a noise like a squeak. "How would you feel about Dumbledore then?"

"Stop it, Harry!" Ron yelled suddenly, interrupting Harry's increasingly long-winded speech. Harry went immediately silent and now everyone in the room was staring at Ron. "Just stop, please! We're your friends. We're on your side, remember?"

But Harry didn't remember. He buried his face in his hands, and when he looked back up, his dark eyes were shining. "What would you do if it was me? What would you do? Then Dumbledore would really be in trouble, wouldn't he? You all would!"

His breathing was labored now and he couldn't stand to look at his friends, partially because he knew he'd hurt them, and partially because he simply wanted to yell more. Suddenly, he didn't want to have to face them with who he really was, and so he turned and ran towards the door, bumping solidly into George's shoulder on the way, but not stopping until he was safely at the door. He swung it open quickly, stepped out, and slammed it shut behind him.

Four redheads and a brunette were left wondering what on earth had come over Harry. Hermione and Ron looked despairing, Ginny looked almost angry, and the twins simply looked confused. They had never experienced the brunt of one of Harry's rages before, and they seemed at a loss of what they should do next. Hermione noticed, and decided to at least smooth over the situation for them.

"He's just going through a hard time," she said, breaking the silence. "And I know he hasn't been sleeping well. It'll be fine."

"Yeah, it'll be fine," George repeated.

Ron nodded, not about to refute a statement of which none of them were sure about to begin with.

"Well, we should probably head back downstairs. The meeting will be starting soon," Fred added.

"Yes, you shouldn't be late," Hermione agreed.

They looked to the door and were about to begin moving, but then they seemed to remember something. "Oh, and one more thing," George said, reaching into his pockets. "A new formulation of Extendable Ears. Much harder to block."

He crossed the room in a few long strides and laid a pile on Ron's bed. "You guys can split them up."

"But don't use them today," Fred added. "I don't think we really know much, anyway, and Mum's knows we're up here. She's going to be suspicious and she might find out about them."

With that, the two red-headed twins waltzed out the door and headed down for the foyer, where Ron, Hermione, and Ginny could faintly hear a group of Order members beginning together, all speaking quietly and apparently not forgetting that there was a group of children upstairs who weren't supposed to hear what was being said.

* * *

Meanwhile, Harry was camping out in the solitude of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's bedroom. He would have felt bad intruding on their space if it weren't for the lack of any other place to go. At least here, he knew no one would be bothering him for at least an hour, until the meeting was over. He would slip out quietly as the Order members were leaving. By that time, the others would probably be downstairs, trying to prod out the information they could and overhear the rest from unsuspecting members like Mundungus. 

Sighing inaudibly, he leaned his head over into his hands and fought back the waves of anger that were still coursing through his body. He hated himself for the way he was acting, the way he was treating his friends. The world was slowly falling apart around him, and rather than trying to fix it, he was only helping it along. He wasn't supposed to be the destructive one, yet the more time that passed, the more he help completely unable to find anything good about his life.

Harry stretched and stood up, pacing lightly about the room. It was completely unrecognizable from the previous summer, as was most of the house. Mrs. Weasley had changed the wall color to a warm taupe, and the quilt that covered the bed was done mostly in rich, dark reds and whispering golds. It was the epitome of Gryffindor, and Harry felt his heart ache at the thought of his school. Back when he was eleven years old, it had been so amazing, so … magical, for want of a better term. His life with the Dursleys had never been overly terrible, but at the same time, it was far from happy. Then suddenly there was a giant telling him that he was a wizard and whisking him off to a school where he finally found people who truly cared for him, and not just because he was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, but because he was skinny, messy-haired Harry who was kind, and somewhat quiet, and average at school but great at Quidditch.

As he continued to pace the room, his rage morphing into anxiety and shame more with every passing moment, something caught his eye; a glint of glass and movement on the table beside the bed. Harry took a few sweeping steps over and reach for the picture frame. It was a wizarding photograph of the entire Weasley family, except for a spot very near the middle that had quite obviously been vacated by Percy. Although Fred and George were fooling around, trying to prank Ron, although Ginny sat near Bill and Charlie, trying to look angelic, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley kept glances to Percy's empty place with nervous, sad expressions on their faces. Immediately, any remaining anger in Harry dissipated and he just felt sick.

He was intruding here, he suddenly realized. This was Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's bedroom! They weren't his parents; this wasn't his family! This had been Sirius's house, and at that time, despite all the dark objects, despite the portrait of Mrs. Black and the burned tapestry, despite Kreacher even, Harry had somehow felt it was his home as well. Not Ron's, not Hermione's, but his. His first real home. Sure, he often called Hogwarts his home, and admittedly the castle felt more like home than the Dursleys' ever had. But when it came down to it, he had no more right to call Hogwarts home than any other student. Two more years, and he might not ever see it again in his life, if he made it that long. But Grimmauld Place, as much as Sirius had hated it and as much as most of his time here had been shadowed by unpleasant events, had been the house where his godfather lived, a house where he was welcome any time. It was the house he would have lived in had he ended up being expelled from Hogwarts the previous summer. But it wasn't Sirius's house any longer, and it couldn't be Harry's. Even though it may not belong to them, it was the Weasleys' home now. And Harry was somehow intruding.

Leaning again the wall, Harry slumped down to the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest and burying his face deeply in his hands. There was nothing he could do now. He was here at Grimmauld Place, and there was nowhere left to go. But it didn't mean he had to intrude on their family. He could keep his distance, try to give them time alone as a family. Hermione, well, she could do whatever she thought was best. Maybe she was more a part of their family, anyway. She had spent more time with them, time when Harry was tuck at the Dursleys', all because of those stupid wards. Damn those useless wards! Damn his mother for dying for him in the first place! If she hadn't he never would have had to go to the Dursleys' to begin with, because Aunt Petunia's blood would have been worthless. Then again, he never would have had to go if he was already dead. Maybe his other just should have let him die.

His self-deprecating thoughts were interrupted by a sharp rap at the door. He buried his face more deeply in his hands, trying to ignore the summons, hoping it would all just go away, but the knock became louder, more forceful.

"Harry? Are you in there?"

He thought about not replying, but he knew the light was shining under the crack beneath the door.

"No!" he yelled. "Leave me alone!"

But the words were muffled, and he doubted that anyone could actually understand what he was saying. They probably thought he was inviting them in.

Whoever it was didn't knock again, nor did they wait for an answer they could understand. The door opened and closed again quickly. Harry was frozen for a moment, afraid to see who it was, knowing how pathetic he must look curled up against the wall. But slowly he looked up anyway, and there stood Ginny, taking in his prone form, his glistening eyes, his cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment and shame.

"Oh, Harry."

Ginny's voice was soft with concern and, somehow, relief. Their eyes linked, green and blue, and for a moment, they just stared at each other. Then Harry lowered his head again and Ginny crossed the room, her steps loud and heavy on the creaky wood floors. She took a seat next to him against the wall and sighed heavily. She sat far enough away not to invade his space, and did not try to comfort him, but ended up doing so just by her presence.

"And here I thought you were going to yell at me," she said. "I thought I was going to have to get into a screaming match with you. And trust me, you don't want to get into a screaming match with a Weasley woman …"

Harry didn't even crack a smile, and Ginny realized that a joke wasn't going to make it better, wasn't going to bring him out of his mood, and so she sighed again. "Harry, I don't know what to do," she said quietly. "I don't know how to help you."

"It's all right, Ginny," he supplied.

"No, it's not all right!" she protested. "You're not all right. Look at you! And what you did back there … it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to any of us."

"I know." Harry ran a hand over his scar, even though it hadn't so much as twinged in ages, since that night. "I'm sorry, Ginny."

"I'm not the only one you should be apologizing to, Harry," she replied.

"All right. I'll apologize to Ron and Hermione as well. And Fred and George."

"Yes," she agreed. "And what about yourself, Harry?" He looked over at her. "You think this is fair, to do this to yourself?"

"I …" he paused. "Sometimes I think I deserve it."

"You don't. You shouldn't ever think that."

"If not me, then who?" he asked.

"No one," Ginny answered. "No one, ever."

"Someone," he said, so quietly it was almost inaudible.

Both were silent for what seemed an eternal moment. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, but for a moment, it seemed as though neither would say anything again, ever, as thought they were frozen right there, forever.

But Ginny broke through. "Sometimes I think you need someone to love, someone to love you back."

"But I do," Harry protested. "There are people I love, and …" He gave her an odd look. "Well, I thought …"

"Oh, Harry!" Ginny exclaimed, realizing what he'd thought she just said. "I didn't mean it like that. Honest. Just … someone to love in a way you don't love anyone else, who will love you back in that same way. Someone …"

"A girl," he said. "You mean a girl. You mean that kind of love." Harry looked at her, and she nodded. "I'm no good at that kind of love, Ginny."

"How would you know, Harry? Who have you dated before? Cho?" She snorted.

Harry was contemplative. "Maybe there's no one out there for me."

"Of course there is," Ginny told him. "But … I don't know. I just think that you've never had someone who was entirely yours. I think maybe it would help."

Harry was about to protest. He'd had Sirius, hadn't he? He'd been Harry's godfather and Harry's godfather alone. No children of his own, no other godchildren. But Harry knew that somehow this wasn't what Ginny meant. He'd had Sirius for the last couple years of Sirius's life. He'd had a godfather with a past he still couldn't even imagine. A godfather who, despite how hard he tried, could never quite separate Harry from his father, even though they were two very different people. Even if Sirius had held a special place in Harry's life, Harry had never been quite so much to Sirius. He'd been too worn out from life to care that much.

"I don't know," he finally said. "I don't know anything."

"Well, I don't suppose that's true," Ginny replied. "I think you know more than you give yourself credit for."

"I don't know enough when to keep my mouth shut, do I?" he asked, trying not to feel cross again. "Ron and Hermione probably hate me by now, all the things I say to them, and the way I treat them."

"They don't hate you, Harry. They're angry with you, I'm sure, and they have a right to be. And they're also concerned about you," Ginny informed him. "As am I. I know I'm not as close to you as they are, but I still think of you as my friend. And yes, it does hurt when you act like you did back there, but more than that, I think about the person I know you are, and I wonder why he would be doing something like that."

_Maybe I'm not the person you think I am_, Harry thought, but he didn't dare say it aloud. Or maybe the person he was had burrowed deep inside, beneath his cold exterior, to a place where it couldn't be hurt any further by the things that went on around him, by the people who had died and left him behind. Maybe he had forced it down, so that he could act like other people even though he was infinitely different. Harry looked up at Ginny, but found that he could not speak. His entire body felt frozen. She looked back at him, and seemed to realize that perhaps it didn't matter if she didn't know how to help him. Perhaps there was nothing that could help him. Instead, she reached out and softly took one of his hands in hers, and just held it. And somehow, that helped more than Harry could explain.


	3. Close My Heart

Murmurs from the Dying Sun

Chapter Three: Close My Heart

_I could close my eyes, it's still there_

_Close my mind, be alone_

_I could close my heart and not care_

_But gravity has got a hold on us all_

_Jack Johnson_

Harry woke early after his first night at Grimmauld Place. After the previous day's events, he had tossed and turned for a long time, first awake and then in dreams, unable to release from his mind everything that had happened and all the things he'd said to his friends. Even now, he was unsure whether he regretted them or still felt a bit of the residual anger from when he'd spoken them. Remembering his conversation with Ginny had been the only way he was able to put the strained feelings behind him and finally fall asleep, where his previous thoughts had just come back to haunt him.

In the next bed over, Ron was still fast asleep, snoring more lightly than usual and looking so peaceful in his rest that Harry felt a stab of envy. He could hardly remember the last time he'd slept so well. Not wanting to begrudge his friend the rest they all desired, Harry quietly gathered a pair of old trousers and a tee shirt and moved along to the bathroom. It was unoccupied, so Harry quickly washed up and dressed, emerging to wonder if he was the only person awake in the entire house. There had been sun shining in through the edges of the window where the thick drapes just couldn't reach, but Harry supposed it could still be quite early. He moved lightly down the stairs, pausing for a moment in the entrance hall before continuing down another flight of steps to the kitchen. He entered and was surprised to find both Mr. and Mrs. Weasley already moving swiftly about.

"Harry, my boy, good morning," Mr. Weasley greeted when he noticed him standing in the doorway.

"Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, looking up and following her husband's gaze to the thin frame of her son's best friend. "I thought I heard someone moving about upstairs. How are you?"

Harry shrugged off the question. "I wasn't being too loud, was I?" he asked.

"Of course not. If it had been one of mine, I expect you'd all be awake right now."

Harry allowed a small smile for that comment before moving further into the kitchen. He observed Mrs. Weasley as she fried some eggs and sausage, presumably for her husband, who was dressed in a set of gray robes and looked as though he would be leaving for work soon. A tea kettle whistled on the other side of the stove, and Mrs. Weasley abandoned the food for a moment as she turned her attention to it.

"What can I get for you, Harry?" she asked as she brewed the tea and quickly flipped an egg before it burned. "Pumpkin juice? Tea? Some breakfast? Eggs? Toast?"

She sounded very eager to feed Harry, especially as he'd hardly eaten anything the day before, merely picking at dinner before pushing it away. But Harry was anything but hungry at the moment. "Um, just tea, I think," he responded, not having the heart to refuse everything she offered.

Mrs. Weasley frowned, but decided not to comment. Instead, she gathered Arthur's breakfast on a plate and brought it over with the tea pot, filling Harry's cup with just enough room for the two sugars he always took. Harry blew on it for a moment and then sipped the scalding liquid, heat running quickly down his throat to his stomach and warming him pleasantly. He hadn't before realized just how chilled he had felt.

"Did you sleep well, Harry?" Mr. Weasley asked, trying to make conversation while he ate his breakfast.

Harry studied his best friend's father as he decided how he should answer that question. The truth was that he hadn't slept well at all, and while he guessed that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could see that just by looking at him, he wasn't sure he wanted to endure any conversations that might ensue, which seemed like they might end with Harry being forced to do things he didn't want to, like taking something to help him sleep, or, worse, continue his Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape. It wasn't like he needed them anymore. Ever since the night Sirius had died, he hadn't had another vision. His dreams were filled with nightmares of Sirius dying, not of anything Voldemort was forcing in. Besides, he thought that if he was forced to deal with Snape in such a situation again, it would only hinder an already bad relationship. Harry preferred to hate his Potions professor from a distance.

"Yes," he finally answered, then, deciding more was needed after a prolonged silence added, "I slept fine."

Mr. Weasley forced a smile. "Wonderful," he replied, and Harry noticed for the first time how strained he looked. He knew he was being selfish, unable to dwell on anything but Sirius's death even though there was nothing he could do now for his godfather, especially with the Weasleys unable to return home for fear that one of their children was plotting against them. Yet no matter how much he tried to convince himself that life would go on without his godfather, he couldn't help but feel that a part of him was missing. How was it fair that he'd had so many people taken away from him, while others in his class lived their innocent lives, families whole and untouched by the war that was unfolding around them. Why was it that he, Harry, was expected to endure with nothing and no one to hold onto, while others broke apart at the mere suggestion that their loved ones may be threatened by Voldemort?

Harry wasn't sure what he would say to Mr. Weasley, and so he didn't respond. The room was silent but for the scraping of a fork on a plate, the banging of pots and pans where Mrs. Weasley worked in the kitchen, and the soft clatter of Harry's teacup every time he set it down. He was just thinking that perhaps he was making the situation more awkward and ought to leave when Ginny came bounding into the room, looking far more cheerful than Harry thought anyone should be allowed to be at this time in the morning. She accepted a cup of pumpkin juice and flopped next to Harry at the table.

"Good morning, Harry." She gave him a beaming smile and took a long swig of her juice. "Mum, what's for breakfast? I'm starving!"

Mrs. Weasley gave Ginny a chastising look. "Oughtn't you wait for your brother and Hermione before you begin?" she asked.

"Oh, Hermione'll be down in just a moment," Ginny informed her mother. "It was my turn to go first in the bathroom." She then turned back to Harry. "We didn't realize you were awake. Is Ron still asleep?"

"He was when I left him," Harry replied dryly. "I'm not sure anything would have woken him up short of getting Sirius's mum started ..." He broke off, wishing that he didn't have to be stuck at Grimmauld Place, where memories of Sirius ran rampant. Every time he somehow referred to the house, he would remember something about his godfather that he wished he could still cling to.

Ginny seemed to realize his dilemma. They all did, he supposed. "He's so lazy, I swear he'd sleep through until tomorrow morning if mum let him."

"Speaking of," Mrs. Weasley interrupted, "why don't you go wake him, Harry, so that we can all have some breakfast." She gave him an encouraging smile and for some reason Harry felt his stomach turn. He would, he decided, rather deal with Sirius's mum than have to eat breakfast, but obediently he began up to the room he shared with Ron. As he left the kitchen, he heard Mrs. Weasley chastising Mr. Weasley for running late to work, and then the loud pop that indicated Disapparation.

When he reached the first bedroom on the second landing, he opened the door gently. Ron was still lying in the same position where Harry had left him, face almost completely obscured in the fluffy pillow he favored leaving mostly violently red hair showing. Stretched completely out, one arm and one leg hung partially off the edge of the bed, and Harry felt a little bad, knowing that if he weren't there, the two beds could be transfigured into one larger one. Ron gave a small snore and a grunt, and Harry thought he might be waking up, but he merely shifted slightly and returned to his deep sleep. Enviously, Harry approached the redhead and gave him a small shake by the shoulders. It did very little other than causing one of Ron's arms to fall over the edge of the bed again, which his friend didn't even seem to notice.

"Ron. Ron, wake up. It's time to get up." His words had no effect whatsoever. "Ron! Wake up!" he said a bit more violently. Still no reaction.

Standing in the silence of the bedroom, Harry almost jumped when he heard the door squeak. He found Hermione standing in the partially open doorway, pushing it farther open and finally stepping in. Harry watched as she made her way over to where he was standing, thinking that the circles under her eyes hadn't been there the day before. Apparently, she hadn't slept any better than he had.

"That'll never work, Harry," she told him matter-of-factly, looking down at their red-headed friend.

Harry looked distastefully down at Ron, wondering how on earth he could still be asleep. Harry himself probably would have woken up just from Ron opening the door. He looked back over at Hermione. "Well, what do you want me to do then?"

Hermione turned to face Harry and didn't answer him right away, looking as though she had more important matters to consider than waking Ron up. He wondered what she was waiting for until her eyes met his and he realized she had been searching. He felt oddly uncomfortable with her eyes boring into him, but he couldn't bring himself to look away.

"Are we all right?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" Harry responded.

"After yesterday, what happened. Are we all right?"

Harry understood the clarification. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?" When Hermione didn't reply, Harry tried again. "Ginny said you'd be angry with me."

"Ginny said?" Hermione returned sharply.

Harry simply shrugged. "We're all right, if you want us to be all right," he conceded.

"I do. You're one of my ..." Hermione broke off. "I want us to be all right."

"And Ron? Are things all right with him?"

Hermione blinked as though she had completely forgotten that they were standing over their slumbering friend, trying to wake up the boy whom Harry supposed was the heaviest sleeper in the universe.

"I suppose they are. I don't think Ron would hold a grudge like that."

Harry chose not to remind her of fourth year, when Ron hadn't spoken to him for months because of the TriWizard Tournament. They had been younger then, the war had been much less desperate than it was now, and both of them knew that Voldemort would love nothing more than to cause rifts between his enemy's members.

"We should wake him up," Harry finally said, looking pointedly at Hermione. "Mrs. Weasley is making breakfast."

Hermione studied Harry for a moment longer, looking as though she wanted to say something else. But she didn't speak, she merely looked at him through tired eyes that mirrored his own, and then finally let out a long, deep sigh.

Turning back to Ron, she reached down and gave him a shake, as though testing to see whether this would be enough. When he didn't even respond with a snort, Hermione backed away from the bed, moving quickly towards the open doorway. She clicked the door shut quietly and then raced back over to Ron's side. Harry watched the display in interest, but he was not prepared for Hermione as she leaned over Ron so that her mouth was right next to his ear and yelled, at the top of her lungs, "RONALD WEASLEY! GET UP THIS INSTANT!"

Harry jumped back as Hermione let the words out, almost toppling over onto his own bed from surprise. He watched as Ron simultaneously shot up in bed and wrenched his eyes from the comfort of sleep. "What? What? Wuz goin' on?" he slurred.

Now that the shock was gone, Harry found a laugh reaching up in his throat, and unable to do otherwise, released it. Hermione simply rolled her eyes as Ron studied his surroundings and, realizing that it was time to get up, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

"You didn't have to scare the pants off of me like that, Hermione," he said testily when no one else spoke - Harry was simply trying to subdue laughter and Hermione was waiting impatiently for him to get out of bed.

"How else was I _supposed_ to wake you, Ronald? I suppose I could have just pushed you out of bed, but I was afraid you might actually get hurt. These wooden floors are pretty hard. Perhaps I should have just taken my chances ..."

Ron merely grumbled in response, something about how he was going to go deaf in that ear, and climbed out of bed. Hermione, for her part, did a very good job of pretending that she couldn't understand anything Ron was saying under his breath and turned a bit shakily to Harry.

"Shall we go down to breakfast, then? With his stomach, I'm sure it won't be nearly as hard to get him to follow as it was to wake him."

Harry silently agreed and led Hermione out of the room. Ron didn't respond to this latest comment, most likely because he knew it was true. They arrived back down in the kitchen to find Ginny setting the table while Mrs. Weasley rushed around the kitchen. Harry was immediately accosted with the strong smell of eggs frying alongside of bacon, and his stomach gave a mighty jerk. He knew that Mrs. Weasley was going to try to make him eat a large breakfast, but the thought of actually trying to chew and swallow anything at the moment was enough to make him want to run the other way and hide.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, a heaping plate of eggs, bacon, and toast was set in front of him. He almost gagged just looking at it.

"Mrs. Weasley? I'm really not ... I don't think I can eat all this. I'd rather just have some toast," he said as she set similar plates in front of Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.

Mrs. Weasley turned his way, looking crestfallen. "But Harry dear, you're getting so thin. You need to put some meat on those bones."

Harry felt terrible rejecting her food. He knew that she put love into everything that she prepared for them, but he didn't think it would exactly seem complimentary if it were to make him sick. "I'm sorry, I just can't." He shook his head.

Mrs. Weasley still looked a bit upset, but Ron didn't seem at all disgruntled. "I'll take what you don't want, Harry," he offered with a grin, scooping off all the eggs and bacon before Harry could rescind the offer.

Harry didn't protest, but instead layered some jam on the remaining toast and took a bite of it as if to prove to Mrs. Weasley that he wasn't completely skipping the morning meal. After that, breakfast passed quickly, Ginny and Hermione having a discussion while Ron merrily ate away his and Harry's breakfasts and then some. Harry was relieved when they began to clear their plates away, and Mrs. Weasley announced that they would again be getting the house in order. Harry wondered what exactly they'd been doing since the beginning of the summer - did it really take that long to clean a house? - but didn't say anything about it.

He and Ginny were subsequently assigned to the drawing room. They had gone through it the year before, Harry remembered, painfully reminded of Sirius being there as they'd scoured it for anything magical or dangerous. It seemed, however, that they hadn't done a very good job in actually cleaning it, and that had been an entire year ago. The only occupants since then, Kreacher, who was more likely to make the house dirtier than cleaner, and Sirius, whom, Harry suspected, spent most of his time up in the master bedroom with Buckbeak, drinking more firewhisky than was healthy, didn't seem very likely to have done much either.

"You ok, Harry?" Ginny asked.

Harry forced his attention back to the drawing room and realized that he had stopped in the doorway. Ginny was looking at him expectantly, holding bottles of cleaning supplies that Mrs. Weasley had given them to work with.

"Yeah, fine," he assured her. Nodding his head as though to reassure himself as well, Harry took one of the bottles from her, and quickly got lost again in his own thoughts as he polished wood, swept floors, and helped beat out as much of the dirt and dust as possible from the ancient Persian rug that adorned the floor.

* * *

By the time Mrs. Weasley stuck her head in and announced that it was time for lunch, the drawing room was almost spotless. Harry and Ginny had worked efficiently as a team, and now all that Harry could think of was that the sofa probably needed to be cleaned, and the fireplace surely did. Harry was glad that the one in the kitchen was the one connected to the floo network.

He followed Ginny back down to the kitchens, thinking that he felt slightly hungrier than he had that morning and could hopefully eat enough to appease Mrs. Weasley until dinnertime. He entered the kitchen to find Hermione and Ron already there. Hermione and Mrs. Weasley were standing off on the other side of the kitchen, away from the table, talking quietly as Hermione held up a chain with something dangling off of it, while Ron sat at the table, contentedly munching on a sandwich from a large platter that sat before him.

"Harry, Ginny!" Ron swallowed his food quickly when he spotted them, holding up the remaining half of his sandwich. "Lunch!"

Harry raised an eyebrow as Ginny shook her head in disbelief. "Not everyone finds food as fascinating a topic as you do," she told him, but continued toward the table to select a sandwich from the platter.

Harry followed her lead, keeping an eye on Hermione as he took a large bite of ham and cheese. She was speaking rather quietly and he had to concentrate hard to hear what she was saying.

"There really weren't very many things … found … no consequence." Harry took another bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly and trying to lean in more closely. "And we did find this ring on a chain ... we weren't sure if it was anything important, but it looked nice, like something he would have wanted to be kept."

Suddenly, Harry had a growing suspicion as to what exactly Hermione was talking about and why she was trying to keep her conversation with Mrs. Weasley covert. He watched the ring sway lightly on the chain, and it tugged at his heart. The food in his mouth grew heavy and he had to force himself to swallow it.

"Hermione," he said loudly. "Where did you find that ring?"

Hermione stopped in mid-sentence and looked over at Harry with an expression on her face that suggested deer in the headlights. "Oh. Harry ..."

"Hermione, where have you and Ron been cleaning this morning?" he asked more forcefully.

Hermione's eyes caught his, and she knew she couldn't lie to him. "It was in Sirius's room," she said quietly, hoping he would understand.

Harry's eyes clouded over, but he was determined not to show any weakness. "Why were you in there? Why were you cleaning Sirius's room?" He realized he was pinning this all on Hermione, and so he sent glares to Ron and even Mrs. Weasley as well.

"Harry," Mrs. Weasley said softly. "You must understand ... with Buckbeak in there as well ... it was, is, absolutely filthy."

Harry rounded on her. Hermione was now standing by her side, as though being closer to each other would somehow make it any easier to appease Harry. "Why do you have to clean it at all? Sirius is gone, and you just want to clear out his space, to just erase everything that was his like he never existed!"

"Harry!" Ron exclaimed in shock, finally finding his voice. "No, mate ..."

"That's not what we're trying to do, Harry," Hermione explained calmly, so calmly that it only made Harry even angrier. "We're not trying to act like he never existed. But the fact is, he's gone. He's gone, Harry. And he can't come back. I don't know if you realize that yet."

"Of course I realize that," Harry replied. "But you're trying to make it look like he was never even here!"

"_No_, Harry," Hermione insisted. "We just -"

"Just what?" he demanded, then paused. He couldn't keep doing this, feeling like this. "You know what? Just do whatever you want. I don't even care. I don't care, all right?"

"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley said, more sharply than usual. "Now, dear, calm down and let's talk about this …"

"No! I don't want to talk about this. I don't want to think about this, I just want it to all go away. Just do whatever the hell you want with Sirius's room, and just forget he ever existed." He could feel his face burning with the anger and hurt, and he took a few backwards steps away from them. "And while you're at it, maybe just forget that I exist as well!"

With that, he turned quickly on his heel and waltzed out of the room, the ham and cheese sandwich that had still been clutched in his hands falling to the floor before he even realized it was happening. And as Hermione and the three Weasleys froze in place in the kitchen, wondering just how they should react to the scene that had just played before them, Harry ran back up the stairs to the bedroom he shared with Ron and collapsed onto the bed, hoping his friends would have more sense than to try and follow him.

He lay on the bed only for a few minutes before his frustration got the better of him. He stood up and began pacing the room, throwing around the dirty socks and pajamas that littered the floor in their bedroom. But the soft, silent collisions of balled up socks gave him no comfort, so he picked up the nearest hard object he could see, the one thing Ron had placed on the table between his and Harry's beds. With the strength of all his anger, Harry chucked the heavy picture frame at the opposite wall and stood steadily unaffected as it crashed into the wall, somehow offering him less comfort than when he'd destroyed Dumbledore's office.

It wasn't until after the glass had shattered into a thousand tiny pieces that he bothered to actually look at the photograph behind it, only to see staring back at him a rendition of Ron, Hermione, and himself, laughing as they wrapped their arms around each other to pose for the camera. And when a piece of broken glass cut into his hand and wedged there, he simply climbed back to the bed and allowed his blood to drip onto the crisp white sheets, realizing that he didn't even know how he should feel, or if he was supposed to feel anything at all.

* * *

Harry hadn't even realized that he was asleep until he was woken by a soft knock at the door. Before he had a chance to react, the door cracked open and Remus barged into the room, pausing only when he saw Harry curled up on the bed, presumably asleep. He was still studying the prone figure when Harry rolled onto his back and looked up at the soft, blurry features through his drowsy eyes. Reaching up to adjust his glasses on his face reminded him painfully of the glass that was still embedded in his palm. He ignored the ache and, suppressing a wince, sat up in bed to silently study his friend and former teacher.

"Harry," Remus said softly. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Harry merely shook his head in response. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

Remus nodded. "So … how are you?" he asked, knowing his words were wrong.

Harry shrugged and looked away. "All right, I guess."

Remus watched the boy before him, wanting so badly to help him that his own pain seemed to diminish in response. He tried to catch Harry's eyes, but the green orbs were resolutely facing another direction. Hoping he wouldn't mind, Remus reached out to take one of Harry's hands in his own, wondering if the touch would help comfort. Both men froze, however, when Remus's hand ran over something hard and Harry let out a small gasp of pain. Grasping Harry's wrist forcefully, Remus pulled the hand toward him and turned it so the palm was facing up. He winced in pain himself, seeing the large, sharp piece of glass stuck in the skin, blood still oozing slowly from around it.

"Harry, you're hurt! Why didn't you tell me?" Remus asked, both sternly and with concern.

"It's nothing," Harry mumbled, looking down at his hand as well. He tried pulling it away, but the older man held on firmly. "It's fine."

Remus looked at Harry firmly. "It's not fine. Stay _right_ here. I'll be back in moment." He gave Harry another long look before turning and bounding out of the room.

Harry took Remus at his word and hardly moved, maintaining his perch on the edge of the bed as he studied his hand carefully. The assault of Remus's grasp had started the bleeding again, and the piece of glass was slowly becoming covered in the sticky red substance. The pain of it tore through him much more than Harry would have expected, having endured the pain of the Cruciatus curse, but he didn't care.

A rush of emotions flooded his mind as the memories of Sirius broke through the barriers he normally kept them behind. He couldn't help but wonder if it had hurt when Sirius had died. What spell had Bellatrix hit him with? He only hoped that it wasn't anything painful, and that Sirius had been blissfully unaware as he fell behind the veil. He knew that Sirius had experienced far more than his share of pain in life, at least as much as Harry himself had. It angered him, the unfairness of it all, yet at the moment, he was too dejected to do anything about it.

Remus arrived a few short minutes later. He sat down on the bed next to Harry, setting down the items he had brought back with him. "Give me your hand," he ordered gently.

Harry did so without a word, studying Remus's reaction to the torn, glass-embedded flesh. However, this time, the older man had very little of a reaction besides a thoughtful, concerned expression as he looked it over. Then, raising his wand, he pointed it at the cut and spoke a few words in Latin. The glass disappeared in a moment, leaving the gash open to bleed even more heavily. Another quick spell later, the bleeding had stopped to almost nothing.

Reaching over to the items he had set aside, Remus unstoppered a glass flask and poured a small amount of it onto a piece of cotton. Holding Harry's hand even more gently, he said softly, "This is going to sting a bit."

Even with the warning, Harry hissed in pain and tried to pull his hand away when it came into contact with the cut.

"I'm sorry," Remus offered. "But I have to make sure it's clean before I can close it up." After a few more hurried swipes, he set the bloodied cotton aside, and spoke one last spell, which sealed the gash on Harry's palm.

As Remus turned to clean up the mess, Harry studied the palm that only a moment before had been cut and bloodied. Somewhat gingerly, he reached up and touched it with the opposite hand, surprised to find the skin smooth, as though it had never been marred in the first place. He looked up at Remus with grateful eyes. "Thank you," he said honestly.

Remus gave Harry an odd look. "You've never had anyone heal your wounds before?" he asked.

Harry considered the question. "Well, probably Madam Pomfrey has, but not like that."

"Well, it wasn't a serious cut," Remus told him. "I don't know much about healing, just the basics."

"Exactly," Harry said, thinking that if it wasn't serious, most people wouldn't have bothered to heal it for him. Then, realizing that Remus might not have understood, he added, "Well, thanks, in any case."

There was silence between them for a long moment. Remus shifted awkwardly on the bed and Harry continued to stare at his hand, which was now resting in his lap. He prodded it again, just to make sure, but even the pain was entirely gone. Remus had healed him in a way that no one ever had before. The Dursleys had never so much as even put a Band-Aid on his cuts when he'd fallen. In fact, Harry could distinctly remember a time when Dudley had tripped him on the sidewalk, and Aunt Petunia had yelled at him for getting blood on the carpet. He'd been only six years old, but he spent that day locked in the closet, sitting through another life lesson that had clearly told him he would have to take care of himself if he wanted to survive in this world.

Then there was Madame Pomfrey of course. She had healed him on numerous occasions. But that was different, in Harry's mind. It was her job to heal him, and her manner was always so gruff that he was sure she found it something of an inconvenience that he'd been hurt in the first place. Remus, on the other hand, had healed Harry's wound because he wanted to, because he didn't like seeing Harry in pain. He was the only one who cared.

Or, not the only one, Harry remembered then. Hermione had eased his pain once as well. She didn't know how to heal, and Harry wasn't sure that the wounds from Umbridge's quill could be healed in the normal manner anyway, but she had given him something to put his hand in, to take the pain away. Remembering it, Harry felt guilty that he had forgotten his friends cared about him as well. He felt guilty for treating them the way he had down in the kitchen at lunch. He had been feeling guilty a lot lately, and yet it didn't seem to stop him from making the same mistakes over and over again.

"Harry?" Remus's voice broke the silence. "How are you, otherwise? Did you not sleep well last night?"

_How do you think I slept?_ Harry wanted to shoot back; but he held his tongue. Remus was only trying to be kind to him, and it wouldn't do to be rude. The truth was, Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd slept well. While at the Dursleys, he had often resorted to taking naps during the day, and even then his sleep was plagued with visions of Sirius, falling through the veil, visions of his friends, injured and in danger. Now, at Grimmauld, it was even worse, for he knew he wouldn't just be able to collapse into sleep during the day without raising questions. Unlike with his relatives, people here actually seemed to pay attention to him.

"I'm fine. I slept fine," he answered instead, his automatic answer to anything anyone asked him anymore. That was all anyone ever asked him anymore, whether he was all right.

He heard Remus suck in a quick breath, and could feel the man's eyes on him. He looked up and locked his gaze with his professor's, and was dismayed when he not only saw the pity that emanated from everyone around him, but anger as well. In that moment, he wanted to break down and tell Remus everything, tell him that he hadn't been sleeping at night, not for as long as he could remember. Tell him that he hated trying to live here without Sirius, that it was _his fault_ Sirius was dead anyway, no matter what anyone tried to tell him. He wanted to admit that he didn't feel like a brave Gryffindor, or the Boy-Who-Lived, or the extraordinary son of James and Lily Potter. He only felt like Harry, alone and lost and with no one to turn to.

But instead of speaking, he looked away again. He looked over at the pile of broken glass that had once been a picture frame, and he felt the tension, thick in the air.

"Harry, don't lie to me!" He had recognized the anger in Remus's eyes, yet the ferocity of his voice startled him. "You're not _fine_. I'm starting to get the idea that you haven't really been _fine_ your whole life!" Harry looked up at him with such pain in his eyes that the older man softened his tone, if only slightly. "You need to talk to someone about this, and I'm here to talk. I'm not alien to what you've gone through, Harry. But if you don't want to talk to me, then at least talk to _someone_. Please."

His words were breaking Harry's will to remain silent, and Harry knew it. "What do you want me to _say_?" he finally asked in anguish. "What is there for me to even say? That I'm upset that Sirius is gone? Of course I am! That I hate myself for not being able to save him?" He paused and shook his head. "You say you understand, but you don't, Remus. It's not your fault he's dead!"

"It's not your fault, either, Harry," Remus said softly.

"Not my fault entirely, maybe," Harry said quietly. "But that doesn't make it any better. It's Dumbledore's fault because he never told me what was happening, or else I would have known what to expect. But that only makes it worse because I trusted him; I trusted that he was looking out for me. It's Snape's fault too because he just _let_ Umbridge try and stop us, without even caring what was happening! And you think it makes me feel good, to know that he hates me so much that losing both of my parents as a baby wasn't enough for him, that he wanted me to lose my godfather, too?"

"Harry …" Remus began, but Harry wouldn't let him interrupt.

"But worst of all, it _is_ my fault! I'm the one who went running off to the Ministry, trying to save him. I should have listened to Hermione. I should have known that even if he was there, I couldn't have saved him. Damn it, I should have remembered about the mirror, and then Kreacher wouldn't have been able to lie to me and I wouldn't have left Hogwarts and Sirius wouldn't have left here and everyone would still be alive!"

"Harry!" Remus interrupted, firmly.

Harry stopped speaking and a dead silence fell about the room, so that all he could hear was Remus's soft breath and the creaking of the floorboards somewhere in the house and his own raging heartbeat. His face was burning with grief and anger, and he felt closer to bursting than he ever had in his life.

"Harry, you can't do this to yourself. Yes, Sirius is dead, and yes, it hurts, but he's gone, and he cannot come back. I wish it weren't so, but it is. And it isn't Dumbledore's fault, or Snape's fault, or your fault, or anyone's fault but Voldemort's, for bringing you there, and Bellatrix's fault, for throwing that curse at him. Do you hear me?"

Harry nodded his head slowly. Remus could see a flutter of emotion in the boy's expressive green eyes but he didn't know how else to deal with it. There was no way to comfort Harry when he still believed that he was the reason for Sirius's death. His eyes were glazing over and Remus could see that he wanted to cry, to break down and sob. But he would never do so, not with anyone there, and trying to make him would only push him further away.

"Harry, please, say something," Remus begged, realizing he didn't know what else to do. He had thought that with his own grief, he had something he could share, something that Harry could relate to and find comfort in, but now he was frightened that it wasn't working.

"I don't … I can't," Harry replied.

"What can I say to help you? What can I do for you? I'm trying to help you get through this; I'm trying to help you in any way I can, but I don't know what to do. I need you to let me know something here."

"Maybe I can't be helped," Harry finally told him, remembering his discussion with Ginny.

Remus was silent for a long time. Harry wasn't sure what it was that the older man was thinking about. Possibly he was realizing that Harry was right, that there was nothing anyone could do or say to help Harry, short of finding a way to bring Sirius back. Short of finding a way to bring back all the people who had died because of Harry, and a way to make the prophecy go away, and give Harry the normal childhood he'd never had.

Harry tried to imagine these things in his head, not daring to speak when Remus seemed so lost. He wondered what his life would be like if he'd never been the Boy Who Lived, perhaps if it had been Neville instead. His parents never would have died and he never would have been shipped off to live with relatives who didn't want him, just because they shared his mother's blood. He would be with his parents. They would have been there when his Hogwarts letter arrived and instead of trying to stop him from having it, they would have watched as he opened it. They would have taken him to Diagon Alley to buy his school things and every year they would stand on the platform and wave as the Hogwarts Express carried him off towards another year at school. But as much as he wished it, the James and Lily Potter he saw watching him leave were young and happy and didn't even know they would someday have a son named Harry. They were the only James and Lily that Harry knew, the ones from the pictures, the ones that stood with a handsome Sirius Black and a less weary Remus Lupin and a Peter Pettigrew who smiled so traitorously that Harry never would have spotted it if he hadn't already been looking. Harry squeezed his eyes shut tightly, hoping to expel images he did not want to see.

"I felt the same way once."

Harry opened his eyes slowly to find that Remus was now staring at him again. He stared back but didn't say a word.

"Like no one could help me," Remus continued. "Did you know?"

Of course Harry didn't know. He knew surprisingly little about the man who was Remus Lupin, at least compared to how much Remus knew about him. Remus knew that Harry hated the Dursleys but was always forced to go back to them. He knew that Harry missed Sirius more than he would ever miss his parents, simply because Sirius had been there when James and Lily couldn't be. He knew that Harry was mostly an average student, except in defense, and it puzzled him. He knew that every time Harry saw a Dementor, he heard his mother dying for him. Harry had no idea what memories a Dementor brought back to Remus.

"Maybe everyone has felt that way at some time. But not like you have, I'm sure. And not like I have." Remus didn't seem to be bothered that Harry wasn't responding. "I lost them all in one fell swoop." Harry didn't have to ask who Remus meant. "At the time, I thought I'd lost James and Lily and Peter to death, and Sirius to a darkness that had somehow wormed its way into his soul."

Harry shivered at his words, thinking that the way Remus described Sirius was exactly the way Harry felt at times. But he would never turn his back on his friends, would he? He would never stop fighting Voldemort. Remus seemed to notice the boy's hesitance and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I know now that wasn't true, but I lost them just the same, Harry. My family was already dead. There was no one left, no one except you, and Dumbledore was sending you off to live with Lily's sister. Not that I could have taken you, anyway. As a werewolf, I never would have been allowed. I had nothing left to live for. I'm still not sure why I did. Werewolves weren't accepted into any part of society. Dumbledore found me a few odd jobs, but my condition was just too … obvious. I wandered for years, Harry, not really living. I thought that was how I would die someday; alone, apathetic, in a forest somewhere, trying, if nothing else, to make sure that I didn't pass my curse along. I didn't think anything would ever change, that anything could ever help me."

Harry was now watching him with interest, though consciously, as though he didn't want to be reminded that he wasn't the only one who had suffered. "But something did?" he asked quietly. "Something helped?"

"Yes," Remus answered slowly, wondering if Harry understood. But he could see in those green eyes that he didn't. "It was you, Harry. When Dumbledore asked me to come to Hogwarts, he said it was because Sirius Black had escaped, and he needed me to protect the students because I probably knew Sirius better than anyone live. But that wasn't the real reason, Harry, and I didn't see it until I'd already let you into my life. _You_ were the reason Dumbledore brought me to Hogwarts to teach. He realized that I needed you much more than you would ever need me to protect you from Sirius Black."

"Some good I did," Harry replied softly. "I brought Sirius back into your life only to take him away again. Why don't _you_ hate me?"

"Harry, I could never hate you! You helped me long before I realized that Sirius hadn't betrayed James and Lily and wasn't a murderer. Having Sirius back in my life was …" Remus squeezed his eyes shut tightly, and Harry wondered what memories he was trying to suppress. "Good. It was good. But it's not your fault that he's gone now. And even if it were, I wouldn't hate you for that."

Harry looked down at his hands, and Remus sighed. He was afraid that he wasn't going to get any farther with Harry, at least not today. He simply refused to believe that Sirius's death had not been his fault, and every time Remus tried to tell him it wasn't, it only made matters worse. Perhaps there really _was_ nothing he could do, at least for that. But he wasn't going to give up. Harry, in some ways, was all he had left now, and he wouldn't ever give up on the boy.

"It doesn't matter if you don't believe me now," Remus said, so quietly Harry almost didn't hear him. "Someone will help you. Someone will eventually find a way."

Harry looked up into the werewolf's eyes and saw an infinite sadness lurking there. And then he did something completely unexpected: he smiled. It was a wistful smile, sad almost, but a smile nonetheless. As though he, too, wanted to believe that he would be all right again, someday. "I hope so," he agreed in an uncertain voice.

"Harry," Remus said then, in a slightly more authoritative voice. "There was something else I wanted to talk to you about. Mrs. Weasley told me what happened at lunch … about Sirius."

Harry nodded, looking slightly ashamed. It was a comforting feeling, considering that he still didn't really regret anything he'd said to his friends the day before. "I shouldn't have yelled at them," he offered.

"No," Remus agreed, and then added, "though I can see where you were coming from. You need to understand, though, Harry. The Weasleys cannot go home again. This is essentially their home for the time being. And as big as Grimmauld Place is, the Weasleys feel bad for taking up space that was once free for Order members to use whenever they needed. The master bedroom that Sirius stayed in was large and the space really is needed. No one is trying to forget Sirius, least of all your friends. They're just trying to keep living."

Harry buried his face in his hands, but refused to cry. "I know. I know." He looked up at Remus. "I know they're not trying to hurt me, and they're not trying to get rid of Sirius. But I'm not ready to go in there, Remus. I'm not ready to see. And I'm afraid that by the time I am, there won't be anything left _to_ see. I'm afraid there won't be anything left to _remember_."

Remus reached out to touch Harry on the arm, but Harry jerked away. His eyes were burning and Harry had the distinct feeling that there were tears there, trying to escape. He buried his face in his hands again, his fingertips pressing into his eyes as though the pressure would stop the tears from coming. How could he explain any of this to Remus? How was he supposed to make Remus realize that Harry couldn't stand the thought of losing the mere memory of his godfather when he still couldn't even stand the loss of the man himself?

"Harry, even if you had nothing left of Sirius you would still have your memories of him. Those will never die. He'll never leave your heart, just as I know he'll never leave mine," Remus said softly.

He was trying to soothe Harry, but when his voice cracked on the last words, Harry was forced to again look up at Remus. He was surprised to find tears beginning to overflow from the man's eyes. When Remus noticed Harry watching him, he quickly wiped the tears away, forced himself to be neutral. Harry wondered if Remus was like him and didn't like to cry, or if Remus just didn't want to cry in front of Harry. Harry hoped that wasn't the case. If Remus was going to cry, Harry rather wished he _would_ do it front of him, so that he wouldn't have to be alone when he was hurting. But the older man had now effectively shut off his emotions, and was back to business.

"I know you're not ready to look at his things yet. I understand that. Would it be acceptable if his things were stored away, so that you can look at them later, when you feel ready? I promise, no one will get rid of anything, they'll just store it away."

Harry considered this for a long moment. He wanted to be selfish. He wanted to keep that room just as it had been. "I suppose if they really need the room," he relented. Then, realizing that he sounded like a sullen child, added, "I - I'm sorry this is … hard. I know I should be getting over it. But it's so hard, you know?"

"Harry! Don't feel that way. No one thinks you shouldn't be mourning for Sirius, and each person does it in their own way. It's unfortunate that these times we live in are difficult, and we must ask you to say good-bye to a piece of Sirius before you're ready. But thank you for agreeing."

"I don't want to be difficult," Harry said aloud, nodding his head and adding, to himself, _sometimes I just can't help it_.

"I ... I don't suppose you would want to talk anymore, would you?" Remus asked, hoping in spite of himself. When Harry didn't even deign his question with a response, Remus added, "Ah, well, if you ever do ..."

"I know. I can talk to you," Harry supplied, sounded distasteful at the thought, hopefully of speaking to anyone at all, and not just Remus.

"Yes, Harry, you can," Remus told him softly. "Really, you can stop me anytime I'm around the house, which will probably be fairly frequently. And you can floo me any time, just check with Molly first, as she'll know if I'm ... indisposed."

Harry knew what that meant. Harry could keep track of the full moons well enough on his own and had, in fact, been doing so ever since he'd found out about Remus back in the Shrieking Shack. He'd only lost track of it a couple times last year, when he was too busy worrying about Voldemort and Umbridge and everything else to remember. No, what Mrs. Weasley would be able to offhandedly tell him was that Remus was out doing something for the Order, or perhaps even _in_ doing something for the Order, Harry wouldn't know, as he still knew next to nothing about the Order's actions. In any case, Remus had basically just offered Harry any amount of his time as long as it wouldn't put either of them in danger. It was a generous offer, though Harry wasn't planning on taking advantage of it.

"Oh, and one other thing …"

Harry glanced up to see Remus rummaging around in one of his robe pockets. He looked on curiously, paling only when he recognized the shape of the package in Remus's hand when it emerged from the folds of fabric.

"I know ... I know that Sirius gave you James's half of the mirror ... I had it before, but we both decided it would serve you much better, stuck in school with that horrid Umbridge. This is Sirius's half; I saved it right away, but I don't think I could use these again. I don't know if you can either, but you should still have it. I have other things. You can keep both, for memories' sake, but I hope eventually you'll give one to someone else. Perhaps Ron, or whoever you like. James and Sirius would have wanted them to still be used. They would have wanted them to be helpful."

Harry took the package from Remus's insistent hands, but simply stared at it. Did Remus know that he thought about this mirror every day, that he dreamt about it every night? Did he know that Harry would as soon smash it into tiny pieces as keep it so he would forever remember his fatal mistake? He wanted to throw it against the wall and watch it land in a shattered heap next to Ron's broken picture frame, yet he knew he wouldn't. If Sirius were alive, he would only hate that more.

Instead, Harry looked up at the older man and spoke, his words seemingly foreign in his mouth and unexpected. "I can't give it away," he said. Remus furrowed his brows, and Harry continued, "I broke the other one. They don't work anymore. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to break it."

"It's all right, Harry."

"No, it's not. It's not all right!" Harry replied, unsure as to why he was getting so upset over this. Turning away from Remus, he ran over to his trunk and wrenched it open, rummaging through the various belonging before coming to a fragile, broken parcel wrapped in brown paper. He picked it up carefully and unfolded it as he turned back to Remus, showing him the shattered remains within. "Seven years bad luck if you break a mirror. That's what the muggles say. Is it true, Remus? I don't need anymore bad luck, but I deserve it, don't I?"

"Of course you don't, Harry. You don't. It doesn't matter anyway, it's just a superstition. It's not real."

Harry didn't think he believed Remus. He would have seven years bad luck, and he deserved it. That was his punishment for killing Sirius. It was a lot less than he deserved, actually.

"I can fix it, you know, if you like," Remus suggested softly.

Harry considered it for a moment. This had been his father's mirror once. Years and years ago, James had held this very mirror in his hands, had used it to talk to the young, whole Sirius Harry only knew from pictures. Not even a year ago, this had been a gift from Sirius, given so that Harry would always have a way to contact the godfather who would go anywhere and do anything for him, his own safety be damned. And Harry had ignored the thin package and now Sirius was dead. In some ways, even though it hurt to see, Harry wanted it to stay broken. He wanted to look at those pieces and be reminded of the dreadful mistake he had made so that he would never make it again. Yet another part of him knew, as Remus had said, that Sirius would want it to be fixed and used again. He would rather see Harry use it as a tool for mischief, or as a tool in the war that was ever crashing down upon them, or as anything other than a way to torture himself and his conscience.

"Harry?"

Harry sighed. "Yes, you can fix it. Please."

Remus studied Harry, but the boy's face was impassive, so he instead looked down at the pieces of the broken looking glass, and pointed his wand at them. "Reparo."

At his softly spoken word, the fragments shifted and melded back together into one. Looking down at it, Harry never would have guessed it had been broken if he had seen it. But despite the flawless façade, he knew he wouldn't forget what he had done to the mirror, or to the man who gave it to him.

"Does it still work?" he asked.

"There's only one way to find out," Remus replied, untying the string around the package that contained the other mirror. Taking it out, he looked decisively into the glass and stated, "Harry."

Harry was somewhat unsurprised when Remus's face appeared on his own mirror. "I suppose that answers it."

"The charms were never broken. Just the glass," Remus supplied.

Harry nodded. A sudden sadness, more poignant than before, washed over him, and he had the sudden desire to turn the other way and run. He swallowed a lump in his throat. "Thank you, Remus," he choked out, forcing himself to say the words. "I … I think I'd like to be alone for awhile."

Remus nodded resignedly, though he wasn't about to give up. He would just give Harry some time, and hopefully that was all he needed. "All right. I'll let the others know not to bother you until dinner. Try to get some rest, Harry, you look tired."

Harry didn't respond. The two studied each other for a very long moment before Remus reached up and touched a hand softly to Harry's cheek before it landed heavily on the boy's shoulder. "Take care, Harry. You know you can reach me if you need to."

With that, Remus turned and stalked out of the room, trying his best not to let his emotions show until he was safely outside the door. But just down the hall from Harry's room, he slumped against the wall, knowing that he needed to regain his composure before he faced anyone else. Watching Harry like that, so dejected, so sad and angry and depressed, had been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do. He'd never seen Harry quite like that before. He knew the boy had never had a good childhood. He knew that Harry had been through much even in the short time since he'd left for his first year at Hogwarts. But never had he before seemed so lost and broken.

In that moment, Remus hated himself. He hated that he had never gone to find Harry. He hated that even when the two had been reunited, now almost three full years ago, he hadn't made more of an effort to support the young man. He hated that he had always thought it Sirius's job, because now Sirius was not here, and Remus didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to make things better, and he was afraid they wouldn't ever be.

* * *

After Remus had left, the door shut securely behind him, Harry found himself frozen in place for a very long moment, unable to react to everything that had happened until he had finished processing it. Then, as if in a dream, he slowly carried the mirrors to the bed, packaging them back up and even retying the string that had been around the one Remus just gave him. He tucked them both into the bottom of his trunk, wrapped safely within an old Weasley sweater he'd outgrown.

With that task accomplished, Harry didn't know what to do. He wanted to be alone, and yet he wanted people there to hold him and to receive the harsh words he would yell at them. He wanted to yell and scream and break things, but at the same time he wanted to break down and cry. How could anyone feel so many things simultaneously? He was feeling so much that he was sure he would soon rip in half from the effort of containing it all. He waited, but nothing happened; he was still Harry, still alive and still in anguish. And, because he could do nothing else, he collapsed onto his bed, alternately shaking and stiffening from all the anger and pain and unfairness. He thought about Sirius, and all he had done for Harry, and how little Harry had done in return.

Sirius's face was already beginning to fade from his mind, as quickly and innocently as a rainbow fades from the sky: so quietly and unnoticeably that one moment it's there, and the next moment you look up and wonder if you had only imagined it. Oh, he could look at the pictures. Sirius was in more than one of the photographs in the album Hagrid had given him, but that was the face of a Sirius Harry had never known, just as he had never really known his parents. It was young and happy and unaware of the horrors the man's future held, and this fact alone offered Harry little comfort. That man wasn't Harry's godfather.

Harry's godfather was a man who had once been full of life and vitality, a handsome man whose life had stolen all the good and left him scarred, broken. Just as Harry often felt. His godfather had known true hardships and personally knew the pain that Harry himself endured. He hadn't asked for what life had given him. He'd only wanted a life filled with his friends, and jokes, and love. But when the task had confronted him, he had been unable to turn it down, unable to refuse a cause that needed him. Oh, how Harry empathized with him. All he wanted was to be a normal student, to be able to laugh with Ron and Hermione on Hogsmeade weekends and complain about schoolwork as though it were the only difficult thing he must endure. He wanted to go home for Christmas and have his mother fuss over him the way Ron's did and to have his father bring home a gigantic fir tree. But none of that was to be, and even if he could have chosen to ignore his fate, Harry knew he wouldn't have. He could not turn his back on a cause that needed him. He made that cause his own.

How ironic then, that the one person he could truly identify with, the one person who had truly understood him, now existed only in his dreams, and in the dark recesses of his mind where the same few minutes played over and over again like a broken record. That voice he could no longer hear, he heard there, a cocky swagger in it as he challenged his cousin for more. That face he could no longer picture was clear as crystal when he saw it there, horror-struck as a beam of red flew towards him, as he fell through the veil. Harry feared, possibly more than anything at the moment, that this was the picture of Sirius he would always remember, a surprised man bathed in a sickly pallor of unnatural red light as he fell to his death because of Harry's immutable mistake.


	4. Lest I Stiffen

A/N: Disclaimers, please. I didn't write it; I don't own in. That's JKR. I'm merely borrowing it for fun. I am not making a profit. In fact, I'm probably losing money because I could work a parttime job with the amount of time I spend doing this.

Readers, enjoy!

Murmurs from the Dying Sun

Chapter Four: Lest I Stiffen

_I will not shut me from my kind,_

_And, lest I stiffen into stone,_

_I will not eat my heart alone,_

_Nor feed with sighs a passing wind._

_Tennyson_

Over the next few weeks, time at Grimmauld Place passed slowly and steadily. Mrs. Weasley helped Ron and Hermione finish cleaning out Sirius's room, and all of the man's belongings were packed up and put away for Harry to get when he was ready. The only thing they'd chosen to leave out was the chain and ring Harry had seen down in the kitchen when Hermione had been showing it to Mrs. Weasley. After having Moody check it over for curses, they had handed it over to Harry. He had studied it just long enough to note that both pieces were made of the same twisting pattern that entwined silver and gold, and then he had tucked it away in his trunk, safely wrapped in one of the hideous socks he'd gotten from Dobby and never worn.

Even after that task was finished, Mrs. Weasley seemed to have no trouble finding them chores to do. They had to clean all the rest of the bedrooms, help out in the kitchen, and go over the other rooms every few days, as the dust seemed to settle in quickly. No one had voiced a complaint since Ron had taken the brunt of Mrs. Weasley's ire upon suggesting that the tasks would go much faster for someone with a wand. Harry wouldn't have complained anyway, as he didn't mind the work as much as the others. It was a distraction from the monotony of sitting around and trying to turn his thoughts away from Sirius, and all the other mistakes he had made in his short lifetime. It was an exercise in futility in any case, as he usually ended up falling into a fitful sleep and suffering the usual nightmares. If Ron noticed anything, he didn't comment on it to Harry, but he was of the opinion that his friend was unaware of the extent of Harry's grief. But then, Ron had been spending more time with Ginny than usual, so he had an excuse. Harry didn't know if it was Percy's supposed betrayal or Harry's own indifference towards his friends that had prompted Ron's change in behavior, but he often had the bedroom to himself while Ron and Ginny sat downstairs and played games of exploding snap or wizard's chess, which Ginny was almost as good at as her brother.

While Ron and Ginny grew closer and Harry wallowed, Hermione read. Harry knew this only because Mrs. Weasley had announced one morning at breakfast that they were going to start on the library. Apparently Hermione had read every volume in the massive collection of books she owned and was ready for new reading material, as well as a more comfortable place to curl up with the large tomes she tended to favor. As Sirius had never been one to sit around in a library, the room hadn't been opened in years, so Mrs. Weasley spent the first day with them, getting rid of any cursed objects before leaving the four of them to clean away the layers of dirt and grime. They had spent one very unpleasant afternoon trying to get the fireplace in working order, and in the end had been forced to recruit Mr. Weasley and his wand to the effort. Hermione was extraordinarily and almost worryingly pleased when they finished, and she walked around the library muttering about the rare treasures an ancient, pureblooded family like the Blacks would have in its collection.

Apparently, this had worried Mrs. Weasley as well, and out of fear that some of the books were cursed and might attack a potential reader, she made them promise not to open an unfamiliar book unless someone else was in the room who could help them or get help if something like this occurred. The main result of this decree was that Hermione frequently tried to recruit Harry to join her in the library. He had reluctantly followed the first few times, browsing at opposite ends of the library from where she searched. Of course, it hadn't taken Hermione long to set aside a pile of books so large that Harry wasn't sure she could finish all of them if all she did was read for the rest of the summer, and he decided it was a good thing that, not having gotten their OWL scores back, they had no summer homework. After finding and reshelving more than a few books that were clearly dark and, more worryingly, that intrigued Harry, he decided that his friend had enough to last her at least for the day, and had left for the solitude of his bedroom. In the following days, he had been more than reluctant to return, and had bluntly told Hermione so without telling her why. He knew that he was being deliberately cruel and unfriendly, but he didn't think he could deal with his friends at the moment. He had even taken to sitting away from them during mealtimes, and while Ron and Ginny often shot worried, uncomprehending looks his in direction, Hermione had begun to ignore him when she realized what he was doing. Harry found this odd, as he would have expected her to be the one trying to get him to open up, and Ron and Ginny to be ignoring him for acting like a prat.

Mostly, however, Harry found that he couldn't really bring himself to care one way or another. It was bad enough trying to dodge Remus's persistent questions, as the man had been to the house every other day since the conversation with Harry, trying to get him to talk about his feelings and Sirius's death. Harry would involuntarily shut down the moment his godfather's name was mentioned, though he knew that Remus was trying to help him and felt bad completely ignoring him. Thus, he began to steer the conversation in other direction, such as the murders and disappearances that were beginning to occur daily, or Harry's desire to learn more defensive spells and strategies, now that he knew it really was his job to get rid of Voldemort once and for all. Remus's face fell every time Harry changed the subject, but he seemed unwilling to break the silent truce between them and would try to content himself with playing the role of professor.

Harry was, in fact, trying to look through a defense book at that moment, hoping to distract himself from his usual depressing thoughts. It wasn't working very well, however, as he couldn't seem to concentrate on spells he couldn't even do. The books Remus and Sirius had gotten him were great, but they were more of a reference to various defensive spells and curses, and they didn't teach one how to work the spell. Remus had promised to bring him a better one the next time he came, and Harry hoped that trying to learn some news spells, even if he couldn't practice them, would help him from dwelling on the memories that plagued him.

A knock on the door interrupted his apathetic lolling then, and before Harry could get up to answer the door or yell for the person to come in, the door opened and Ron stuck his head in. "You all right there, mate?"

"Fine," Harry replied quickly. "What do you need?"

"It's dinner time," Ron answered. "Ginny and I are down in the kitchen helping Mum. D'you think you could stop and tell Hermione? I reckon she's in the library again."

Harry nodded. After all, where else would Hermione be? "Sure. We'll be down in a few minutes."

"Great." Ron beamed a smile at him, and then his head disappeared and he shut the door behind him.

Harry sighed and shut the book, then stood from his bed. The work around Grimmauld Place had slowed down considerably, and he was beginning to get stiff from lying around, reading and thinking so much. It certainly hadn't been enjoyable living with the Dursleys, but at least then he could go for walks around Little Whinging and annoy Dudley by following him and his gang around. He'd noticed that his cousin had been even more wary of him since the Dementor incident of the previous summer and by now Harry was sure he would have turned to finding amusement in annoying the whale of a boy. Here at Grimmauld Place, they couldn't risk leaving the house much because of the Fidelius charm, and it wasn't safe to wander around that area of London, anyway. But Harry longed for the fresh air, possibly to go for a broom ride. At this point, he would even take chores like mowing the lawn or weeding the garden back on Privet Drive.

Thinking hopefully about this, Harry left the room, visions of sweeping through the air lifting his spirits, if only a little. How he longed to be back on his broom. As much as he didn't look forward to returning to Hogwarts and the loads of work that sixth year would entail, it would be enough to get to fly again. He had vaguely considered the idea of Umbridge's Quidditch ban, and decided that it could probably be overturned, but even if it wasn't, there was no rule stopping him from flying, and Dumbledore wouldn't keep his Firebolt, as it was Harry's private property even if he couldn't play Quidditch.

He reached the library with these positive thoughts in mind and entered to find Hermione curled up in an armchair with a book that probably weighed half what she did. Her bushy hair was falling out of her makeshift ponytail and curling around her face, and her eyebrows were stitched in thought. Harry was filled with a sense of comfort watching her and momentarily regretted his cold behavior towards his friends, but he pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind as he remembered that they were supposed to be getting down to dinner.

"Hermione," he said, trying not to startle her badly and likewise not succeeding.

"Oh, Harry!" she said when she saw him. "I didn't realize you'd come in."

"Ron just told me it's almost time for dinner. We should head down to the kitchens," he told her, feeling suddenly awkward.

"Oh," she replied, disappointment shining in her eyes at the thought of having to leave her books. "Already? It seems I just got down here."

"It's almost seven," Harry informed her. "Come on ... we should go."

Hermione nodded and reluctantly turned away from her book, frowning deeply. Harry had to hold back a smile that wanted to cross his face, as he knew that she wouldn't find his amusement flattering. Instead, he opened the library door and waited for her to exit before following her out and down the stairs to the kitchen.

Ron and Ginny were rushing around helping their mother when Harry and Hermione arrived, Ginny standing over the oven and Ron setting far more than the usual six places at the dinner table. Hermione moved to the sink to wash her hands for dinner, but Harry stayed in the doorway, not wanting to get in anyone's way, yet not really wanting to help.

"Who is coming for dinner tonight, Mrs. Weasley?" he asked curiously when she popped her head into the dining room to check on Ron's progress.

"Oh, the other boys will be here, and Remus and Tonks and Kingsley," Mrs. Weasley replied. "There's going to be an order meeting after, so you four will have to make yourselves scarce when the meal is over."

Harry almost shot back a question asking why he couldn't stay, but he knew he wouldn't get a real answer, or at least not one he liked. He supposed he would rather not have to face the other members anyway, especially Snape. He would be perfectly happy if he never had to see that man again.

"Harry, help me get a couple pitchers of butterbeer," Ginny implored as Hermione moved farther into the kitchen to see if she could do anything to help Mrs. Weasley finish dinner.

Harry had just stepped out of the doorway and into the room, however, when the floo chimed. The four teenagers turned toward to find two identical redheads coming in through the fireplace followed quickly by Charlie, who was staying with them in their London apartment while on a leave of absence from the dragon preserve he normally worked at. Harry had never asked exactly why Charlie had taken a leave of absence, but he was under the impression that it had something to do with Percy's supposed betrayal. Harry figured that he, too, would feel bad if he were staying relatively safe down in Romania – as safe as one can be when they work with dragons for a living – and his family was living in danger, forced from their home.

Greetings were still going on when the fire flared again and Bill came through, looking harried but cheerful. Harry made sure to say hello to all of them before Ginny finally pulled him into the kitchen to fetch the pitchers of butterbeer, which were drained almost immediately by the group of Weasley boys who had settled themselves at the table. Not long after, Tonks and Kingsley followed Mr. Weasley in straight from the Ministry. Looking at them, Harry felt quite certain that Shacklebolt hadn't slept in days, though surprisingly Tonks looked wonderful. He supposed that could have something to do with her metamorphmagus abilities.

By this time, Mrs. Weasley was scrambling around the kitchen, trying to finish dinner so they would have time to eat before the other Order members began to arrive. Hermione got up to help her and Harry, feeling bad about sitting down when she was working, followed her with Tonks close at his heels, looking enthusiastic about helping in the kitchen. They were just setting bowls and plates of food onto the table when Remus came through the floo. He looked haggard, tired, with circles under his eyes, but he gave Harry a reassuring smile as he slipped into the empty seat between Harry and Shacklebolt. As the others took their food, he passed Harry a book on practical defensive instruction that Harry had asked for, after being frustrated by all the books which named spells but didn't teach one how to do them.

Dinner went by quickly, but well, Harry thought. He got caught up in the joking of the Weasley brothers, with occasional input from the others, and managed to eat more than he had in a long time. It was one of the things Mrs. Weasley always seemed to chastise him about. Tonight, by the time everyone was finished eating, the food was completely gone, and the mother of seven was beaming at having successfully stuffed so many people.

"I think it's time we get cleaned up here for the meeting," Mr. Weasley said, but everyone was so full that none of them made a move to get up, causing Ginny and Tonks to giggle, and Ron to reach for his cup in hopes that some butterbeer still remained in it.

The cup was, unfortunately, empty, but Hermione's was half full, and when he accidentally bumped it, the contents spilled all over her. Hermione jumped up quickly from the table, but not before a significant amount of butterbeer had soaked into her pants. She shot Ron an almost murderous look.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, standing up quickly and moving to where Hermione stood. "Scourgify. There," she nodded as Hermione's pants immediately dried up. "That's all better. Now come on, everyone, help me move these dirty dishes into the kitchen. Others will begin arriving any minute now!"

Harry reluctantly stood and gathered up all of the empty plates around him, stacking them together and following Remus into the kitchen. With everyone helping out, the dishes were put in the sink and set to washing very quickly, and Harry was relieved to leave for the library with Ron and Hermione before he was forced to talk to any other Order members. The three of them trudged up the stairs, saying good-bye to Ginny as she kept going up towards her bedroom, where, she had informed them, she would be writing a letter to Dean.

They had only just arrived, however, when Harry stopped suddenly. Hermione had already begun rummaging through a large pile of books she had set aside.

"What?" she asked when she saw Harry standing in the doorway.

"I forgot my book … Remus brought me another one on Defense," he explained.

"Well, can't you find something else to read?" Hermione asked. "This is a _library_, there are thousands of books in here."

"Yeah, mate, there are even a few good ones on Quidditch," Ron added.

Harry frowned. "I really just wanted to look through the one Remus brought me," he said, feeling sullen. "I'm not much in a reading mood tonight."

Ron shrugged. "Then run back down and get it. I'm sure the Order meeting hasn't started this quickly."

Harry considered it for a moment, and then turned and headed back away from the library towards the kitchen without a word to his friends. He found more and more people beginning to arrive downstairs, and Remus gave him a questioning look. Harry reached under the chair he'd sat in during dinner, still unoccupied, and pulled out the book, holding it up for the werewolf to see. Remus smiled and nodded in response.

Starting to feel other eyes on him, Harry quickly headed out of the kitchen and pounded quickly up the steps, wishing there were some alternate way he could get out some of his energy. Swinging around the corner at the top of the stairs, however, he came to a complete halt as a dark figure ran smack dab into him. The book went flying out of his hands as he crashed to the ground. It took him a moment to regain his bearings, but when he looked up, he wished he hadn't.

He scrambled to his feet as a dark, furious stare bore into him. The hallway was narrow and he found himself backed against a wall, trying to get as far from the Potions master as he possibly could. Snape loomed over him, though, surprisingly, not by nearly as much as it had once been. It didn't really matter. Harry still felt more intimidated by him than he had by anyone.

Breaking his malicious gaze with Harry, Snape leaned over. When he returned to full height, Harry could see that he was holding the dropped book in his hand, and he realized that he hadn't even remembered he'd been carrying it.

"Harry Potter. With a book. Will wonders never cease?" Snape asked sarcastically. When Harry didn't reply, he continued. "Eloquent as always. Though, of course, the apparent clumsiness you so often display in my classroom hasn't improved. Tsk, tsk, Potter. You haven't practiced _walking_ all holiday."

Harry, quite frankly, wasn't in the mood for it. He wasn't even in the mood to yell at Snape, which was surprising. Possibly because he was the only person here who didn't think Harry should be babied. What he really wanted was just to leave, to get away from everyone. Instead, he held his hand out. "Can I please have my book back, sir?" he asked politely.

Snape smirked. Apparently, he was in the mood to play. "Perhaps I should make sure it's appropriate reading first. Fortunately, I can assume it isn't Potions, as there's no way you made it into my NEWT level class with the pitiful piece of mush you call your brain."

"Mush? Is that a technical term?" Harry asked through gritted teeth.

"For you perhaps it should be," Snape said.

"In case you hadn't noticed, _Snape_," Harry responded, his voice raising. "I'm not in the mood for an argument. So would you please give me my bloody book back and allow me to move on? The only good thing about not being allowed to attend Order meetings is that there's less time to spend with you!"

Snape paused, eyes widening, as Harry's comment sank in. Harry didn't regret the words one bit. Snape was correct; there was no way Harry had made it into NEWT level Potions, and if Snape was no longer going to be his professor, then there was no reason to hold back his true feelings.

"You certainly seem riled up enough to me, Potter," he replied scathingly. "Try to remember that I _am_ your elder, and do not make the mistake of forgetting that I was once a Death Eater. I could hurt you in way you can't even imagine! Now, about this book ..." Snape turned the book in his hands and flipped open the front cover. "_A Practical Guide to Magical Defensive Tactics Against Dark Magics_." Well, I see someone has finally decided it's time to learn _something_ to use against the Dark Lord, not that any _pathetic_ attempt you will give it will do any good. Perhaps if you had Miss Granger's brains and work ethic, you might make a passable opponent, but sadly, such a thing will never happen, not when you feel the need to play the hopeless, clueless hero. Though I am curious, Potter, what was it that prompted this, the knowledge that he really is going to be the one to off you, or the fortunate death of your beloved mutt of a godfather that you caused?"

"SHUT UP!" Harry yelled, and was about to yell it again when a low, familiar voice spoke.

"Severus." Remus's tone could only be described as disappointed and hurt. He stepped around the corner and into the hallway where Harry and Snape stood, revealing a red-faced, livid Mrs. Weasley.

"Severus Snape! How dare you?" Harry flinched at the tone and took another step backwards, colliding with the wall. Mrs. Weasley must have noticed, because then she turned her attention to Harry. "Harry dear, I'm sorry you had to put up with this man's abominable behavior. Why don't you run along to the library? We have to get down to the meeting."

Harry grimaced but nodded his agreement. He paused only for a moment before slipping past Snape and beginning down the hall.

"Harry, aren't you forgetting something?" Harry turned at the sound of Remus's voice. "Severus, the book?"

Snape's face tightened, but he shoved the book in Harry's direction, letting go before Harry had a good grip on it so that he struggled to keep from dropping it again. Harry decided not to say anything, and instead moved on and turned the corner that led down to the library. He stopped then, not wanting to enter the room where his friends were waiting while he felt so angry and hurt. He certainly hadn't expected the voices of Mrs. Weasley and Remus to continue when they thought he was far enough away not to hear, but they did.

"That was low of you, Severus," Remus said, his voice gone cold. "I know you and Harry have never gotten along, and though I think it wrong of you to hold a grudge against a teenager because of his deceased father's actions when he himself was young, I don't contest it because Harry seems to handle it and has, in fact, been uncooperative in return. But right now that boy is in immense turmoil and the last thing he needs is for you to treat him like a substandard idiot and accuse him of causing Sirius's death, which he already believes is true."

"Perhaps that means it is," Snape responded dryly.

Harry couldn't see the reactions of Remus and Mrs. Weasley, but after what came next, he could certainly imagine them.

"No, Remus, allow me." Harry had never heard Mrs. Weasley sound quite so formidable. "You are a despicable man, Severus Snape. Just despicable! I don't care whether you dislike Harry because of his who father was or because of something else he has done or said. I do imagine that, with the way you have treated him since the very beginning of his education at Hogwarts, he has given you some reason or other to dislike him, and I also just as highly imagine that he never would have done so if you had allowed yourself to get to know Harry Potter and not just assumed he was James!

"Everything aside, you shouldn't treat anyone like that! You know as well as anyone that Harry was not responsible for Sirius's death. You make me think you're glad to see him dead, but until now I was sure you wouldn't stoop so low. I'm starting to think all those complaints I heard from my children are nothing short of true! Harry is still a child, and is feeling hurt and depressed and a load of misplaced guilt, and it is beyond my comprehension what must have been _going through your mind_ when you decided to yell at him like that back there! I know you're aware that Harry has now been fully informed of his role in this war, and he is in a fragile state at this moment. Have you _no_ compassion?"

Harry didn't know what to feel after Mrs. Weasley's speech, a maelstrom of emotions rising inside him. Instead, he listened to the rest of the conversation play out.

"Oh, yes, _fragile_ Harry Potter, the poor unwilling hero," Snape sneered. "Do not try to intimidate me, Molly, for the Dark Lord is far more frightening than you could ever be. It is clear that we both see very different versions of Potter, though perhaps yours is tainted by the unimpressively low standards you have been forced to set for your own children. Might I suggest that if we were not to treat Potter as such a delicate object, then he might cease to be one? Now I, for one, am going downstairs before we irk Albus with our tardiness."

Snape's sharp, clicking footsteps began and then stopped abruptly, and he could just barely hear Remus's next words. "Snape, you can say what you wish and insult whom you wish, but I will not allow you to treat Harry that way and damage him even further. Keep away from him."

"Oh, yes, I'll be sure to steer clear of him just because _you've_ ordered me to, werewolf. Harry Potter gets enough babying from the two of you that I'm sure he can handle a few _truthful_ words from me. Now, if you don't mind, I am going down to the meeting before Albus begins without us."

There was a pause and then Snape's clicking footsteps moved off down the hallway and disappeared. Harry stayed where he was, just around the corner, hardly breathing as he listened closely to anything Remus or Mrs. Weasley would say. He wasn't sure why he was so interested, but he couldn't help it. However, it remained completely silent. Harry could imagine them sharing a look of annoyance or sadness or even pity, but no words were spoken before they, too, moved away and down the stairs to the kitchens, where the meeting was being held. He waited a few more eternal moments before letting out a long sigh and heading in the opposite direction.

Trying his best to swallow back the annoyance and anger and other emotions that were trying to take control of him, Harry entered the library. Hermione was now seated in a large, squishy armchair, curled up in it with a thick book that probably weighed more than she did. Ron was sprawled on a couch on his stomach, browsing through a book on Quidditch that was more illustrations than words, the kind of book Ron preferred, as Harry well knew. His book still in hand, Harry refrained from greeting either of them short of a nod, and instead dropped into a seat of his own and cracked open his book.

"Hello, Harry," Hermione said aloud as he flipped to the first page.

He looked up and saw his friend looking at him expectantly, almost hopefully. "Hullo," he replied, looking back down at his book and hoping she would have the sense to leave him alone.

Apparently she didn't. He could feel her eyes on him as he tried to make himself read the words on the page before him and so he looked up and gave her a cold smile.

"Is everything all right, Harry?" she asked.

He couldn't have said why, but something inside made him want to jump up and yell at her, to make her _see_, truly see that he wanted to be left alone and that her constant badgering and bothering wasn't helping anyone. He didn't have the heart to be so mean, yet he didn't have the strength to quite deny his urges.

"Everything's fine, Hermione. Leave it," he said.

Hermione shot Ron a look that was clearly asking him what could have happened in the time that Harry had gone back down to the kitchen to pick up the book Remus had brought him. Harry rather hoped they wouldn't ask, because he didn't feel like explaining his encounter with Snape.

When Hermione looked back over at him, words on the tip of her tongue, he gave her a nasty glare and cracked open his book, refusing to look back up at her. If that didn't send her the message, then he didn't know what would. He couldn't be any clearer. He sat, uncomprehending, for five full minutes before he felt safe from any responses Hermione might have had to his attitude and started to look over the first chapter of the book.

Merlin, this was so boring! He usually found anything having to do with Defense very interesting, not least because his life depended on it. Yet he found it impossible to concentrate on the instructive pictures he saw, and instead got up from his seat, abandoning the text Remus had selected for him, in favor of wandering through the library. He wanted to get away from Ron and Hermione and prevent any more rude comments from escaping him, so he made his way to the opposite end of the library and turned the corner down the last row of shelves.

Once out of his friends' sight, he leaned back against once of the shelves and, closing his eyes, forced himself to take a long, deep breath and let it slowly out. Getting worked up over Snape was utterly foolish and he told himself he should have more sense than that. Of _course_ Snape was going to try and rile him up by insulting and baiting him. He should expect nothing less from the insufferable Potions master. Besides, since when had it mattered to him what Snape thought? _Since he finally said something true_, a voice spoke up. _Everything he said about finally learning how to fight Voldemort, about how I might have prevented Sirius's death … it was all true._ That, he could not bear. He could not stand to think that even _Snape_ knew he was to blame for Sirius's death. And then Remus and Mrs. Weasley jumping in, trying to defend Harry as though he was some fragile toddler – literally! He couldn't believe they had dared to call him _fragile_! Was that really how he seemed to everyone?

Opening his eyes, he forced the anger to abate. Remnants lingered and so he began reading over the titles of the books in front of him. The titles all sounded rather foreboding – most of them had "Dark" somewhere in the title – and Harry remembered having found this section at some point earlier in the week when he'd been dragged down by Hermione. The fact that a single one of them seemed interesting worried him, but he became quickly engrossed in the titles. _The Art of House-Elf Sacrifice for Application in the Dark Arts_, Harry read off the spine of one. He'd better not let Hermione see that one; she would be horrified at just the title, and would no doubt use it as more proof that the House Elves desperately needed to be freed.

On and on they went, books on all different kinds of dark arts, until one in particular caught Harry's eyes. _The Use of Human Blood and Flesh in the Darkest Regenerative Practices and Rituals_, the cover read. Harry ignored a shiver that ran down his spine and impulsively pulled the book from the shelf. Wasn't this exactly what Voldemort had done when he had used Harry's blood, as well as Wormtail's hand and his father's bone, to give himself a new corporeal body? He cracked the book open and, when nothing terrible happened, started flipping through the pages. There were few illustrations, but those that existed were quite gruesome, often showing in great detail where on the body the blood needed to be collected from or the cut of flesh needed for the magic to bind. It was sick, and Harry looked on in fascination.

Keeping the book propped open on the edge of the shelf, Harry looked around for some place he could be alone. But the only comfortable seating was close to Ron and Hermione, and Merlin knew what they would say if they looked at the title of the book he was reading. No, actually, Harry knew as well: they would be shocked that he would even _want_ to read such a book, then they would tell him it wasn't _healthy_ to be reading such a book, and then Hermione would probably threaten to tell Remus or Mrs. Weasley what he'd been doing.

Yet he found that he didn't really care _what_ his friends thought. As much as it pained him to sound so superior, _he_ was the Boy-Who-Lived, not them. And though he hated it, though he would have done almost anything to relieve himself of such a title, there was nothing he could do. He was the sole hope of the wizarding world, and he had to deal with that in his own way. If it meant reading dark, sickening books about just how Voldemort had managed to become mortal again, then he would do it in a heartbeat. Besides, if he could be forced to watch it all, to even be forced into participating, all while tied to a gravestone, then surely he could read it in a book.

Moving purposely back to his seat, he haphazardly set aside the book Remus had brought for him and settled in, opening the book before him. Hermione glanced up and he looked quickly down. He could feel her eyes on him, but he forced himself to concentrate on the words in the book and eventually her attention moved back to her own reading. Slowly, Harry began flipping through the pages, looking for key words that would alert him to something Voldemort might have done. Of course, Voldemort might have done any one of these rituals – some of them were rituals similar to the one Harry had witnessed, but others were used more simply to give strength and resilience. Harry suspected that these concoctions and spells would be _just_ a bit more effective than the standard strengthening potion or defensive spell, for one to take such lengths to use them.

And then he flipped another page, and there it was. There was a new entry, and at the very top were a few lines that had been etched into his memory since that fateful night at the end of fourth year. _Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken_, he read. Though he knew it so well, seeing it right there written down in a book that had been in Sirius's home all this time affected him in a way he hadn't expected, and he was unable to hold back a low gasp. His eyes skimmed the passage, bypassing most of the parts on the flesh of the servant and bone of the father. Right there it was, in excruciating detail.

_Blood of the enemy is most efficacious when extracted from a deep cut on the inside of the elbow._ Harry felt bile rise in his throat and he involuntary clutched at the second major scar he'd received, right where Wormtail had cut him open. _The forceful removal of blood from the enemy is historically significant because, when this spell was more widely used, the donating wizard's arm would be fully severed at the elbow of the dominant arm so as to limit the enemy's further use of magic. Sometimes blood would even be extracted from both arms, effectively preventing any further use of magic in all but the strongest of wizards._ Harry felt flushed and a little sick at the revelation. If this were the case, why hadn't Voldemort completely cut off Harry's arm? Not that Harry wished he had, but it seemed odd that Voldemort would show any mercy. Perhaps his source hadn't mentioned the possibility. And then he remembered: Voldemort hadn't cut Harry's arm off because he had been planning to kill Harry in a duel. He had wanted to prove his great superiority, and it had backfired. Harry had been almost grateful when he realized that Voldemort wanted to duel him, and not realizing they had brother wands, had probably saved his life. Now Harry knew that it had probably saved his arm as well.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice broke through his thoughts and he looked up guiltily, unsure as to why he felt that way. "Harry, you don't look well. What on earth are you reading?"

"What? Nothing. I just couldn't concentrate on the other one," he answered truthfully. "I'm fine."

Hermione looked skeptical. "You don't look fine," she responded, setting aside her own book and reaching for his.

Harry moved it out of her grasp while trying not to lose his page. He wanted to read everything he could about this spell. Why had Voldemort chosen it, when there seemed to be so many others? Exasperated, she stood up and managed to grasp the edge of the book in one hand. Harry refused to let go, and a sort of tug-of-war ensued.

"What are you guys _doing_?" Ron asked in confusion.

"I want to know … what Harry's … doing," Hermione replied through clenched teeth, never stopping her fight for the book.

Finally, it seemed, the book had had enough. Both pulling too hard from opposite ends, it went flying out of their reach and landed closer to Ron than either of them. They were both silent and still for a long moment before Hermione scampered over to the book. Harry decided to give up on trying to stop her; it was futile to argue with Hermione over something like this. The young woman reached the book and flipped it over before opening the front cover. Her eyes drank in the title rather quickly, and she looked back up at Harry with a mixture of concern, surprise, and anger on her face.

"Harry! What are you doing reading something like this? This is entirely inappropriate!" she chastised.

By that time, Ron's curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he leaned over to read the title. Soon, he too was staring at Harry, but more in shock than anything. "What would you even want from reading something like that, mate?" he asked uncomprehendingly.

"I just … wanted to read it, all right? I'm certainly entitled to read whatever I want, so get off my back. Just because I've moved onto books with actual words doesn't mean you have to be jealous, Ron," Harry said maliciously, glancing down at the Quidditch book.

Ron's face flushed crimson and he looked as though he might retaliate at any moment, but Hermione held up a hand to stop him. "Harry, that was uncalled for. I rather wish you would read about Quidditch instead of this. I don't understand why you would even want to. This book is _dark_, Harry."

"Oh, thanks, I hadn't noticed," he replied sarcastically. "And it's not my fault if you don't understand the fact that there are things out there that are unpleasant and dark and that _I_ need to be prepared to face them."

"You don't need to be prepared to face them _yet_," she told him in exasperation. "There are two entire years until we're out in the real world, and until then we'll have people protecting us. Even after that we'll be protecting each other."

"Oh, yes, because that protection has been so great until now!" Harry spat back at her. "Hermione, I'd be _dead _if it weren't for the fact that fate stepped in and gave me a wand with the same core as Voldemort's. Even if two years were a long time, which it's not, I'm already _in_ the real world, in case you hadn't noticed. I would think that after what happened at the Ministry, you of all people would realize we need to be prepared for what's out there _right now_, and not some distant abstract future."

"Of course I realize _that_, Harry," Hermione responded. "But you do that through books like the ones Remus has been bringing you, books about defense and spells and warding. A book on dark rituals like that, it's unnecessary and inappropriate, and a little scary that you're so interested. I don't think you should be reading it, and if you don't stop I'll tell Remus."

"Oh, Merlin, of course you will!" Harry exploded. "I'm so sorry for being interested in something that concerns you _so_ much, Hermione! Yet I fail to see how it can be inappropriate to read about a ritual I've already been _forced_ to participate in. Then again, you wouldn't understand how that feels, would you?" He gave her a disgusted look. "Forget this. I don't have to take your shit."

Standing up swiftly, he sauntered out of the library and never once looked back, leaving Ron and Hermione staring at the library door as it slammed shut.

xXxXxXx

When he had calmed down enough to become aware of his surroundings, Harry was unsurprised to find himself staring the walls of the bedroom he and Ron shared. The violent orange of the posters Ron had hung was doing to little to assuage his anger, and once again Harry began pacing the length of the room. Ron's picture frame, having been repaired by Mr. Weasley, again held the picture of the three friends smiling and laughing without a care in the world. Those horrible, smiling faces of his friends jarred him in an unexpected way. He subdued the urge to chuck the picture at the wall a second time.

Still, what right had they to laugh? What right had they to be cheerful when Harry was feeling so miserable? _But you're _not_ miserable_ _in that picture,_ Harry had to remind himself. _You're just as happy as they are._ And that was when he realized that it wasn't about them; it was about him. He was jealous because they could still lapse back into that blissful, peaceful state whenever they wanted to, and Harry couldn't. He was fated to fight Voldemort and until then there would be no respite for him. He was torn between wanting to destroy something and wanting to curl up on the bed and cry.

He did neither. A knock sounded at the door and he groaned, falling back onto his bed. He was not in the mood for a lecture right now, and was gathering up his strength to tell Hermione just that, when a distinctly different female voice called out his name. Still cross, he stood and opened the door to find a petite redhead on the other side.

"Ginny? How did you know …?" he asked.

"Well, the slamming door might have had something to do with it," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. She pushed past him into the room and made herself comfortable on his bed. He turned and followed her with his gaze but didn't move other than to shut the door again. "Come on," she ordered, patting the bed beside her.

Deciding against protesting, Harry approached her, coming to rest lightly on the edge of the bed, as far from her as he dared. The redhead only looked at him for a very long moment. She was studying him, Harry knew, trying to gauge how upset he was and what she should say or do to make him calm down and feel better. It annoyed him that she thought she could read him so easily, that she would even try, but he kept his emotions to himself, and tried to avoid her gaze.

"What's wrong, Harry?" she finally settled on asking.

Harry looked at her sideways. "Wrong? Nothing's wrong."

"Harry," she repeated in a tone that told him he was treating her well below her actual intelligence level. She gave him a withering look and he copied it sarcastically. "Ginny," he mocked.

A hurt look flashed across her face, but she hid it quickly and easily. "For Merlin's sake, what happened?" she asked again.

"Nothing of import," Harry replied coldly. "Now, I appreciate that you want to help, but if it's all the same, I'd really rather be alone right now, okay? I'm really just all alone, anyway," he added in lower tones.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ginny asked before he could move away.

"Nothing," he replied after a pause. "It means nothing, Gin." Neither of them moved. Harry sighed. "It means that no matter how much you'd like to make it better, there's really nothing you can do."

Ginny met his eyes. "Harry, I don't even know what you're talking about, but how do you know I can't help unless you let me try?"

Harry wasn't sure even _he_ knew what he was talking about. He knew that he wasn't really, literally alone. One word, and Ron and Hermione would be at his side. Likely so would Ginny and the twins, and probably Remus as well. They would follow him into battle even if it meant certain death; they wouldn't stay behind even if he asked them to do so. Yet they were only his friends, only pawns in a war of greater import than even Hermione would dream. Even if they went with him to the end of the road that led straight to Voldemort, there was nothing more they would be able to do. The prophecy left little room for interpretation. It was quite clear that no matter who was with him, it was Harry himself who would have to step forward and strike the final blow to one of the darkest wizards of their time. No one could take his place.

"Ginny, I can't."

"Yes, you can," she said softly. "All you have to do is tell me what you can."

Harry sighed and was silent for a long time, and then he surprised himself. "I was looking at a book, and it was dark. Dark rituals, I mean. Stuff only Death Eaters would do. But I was just looking at it, because I was looking for … something Voldemort would have done," he explained, choosing not to mention the ritual that Voldemort had _already_ done. "It wasn't like I would ever try anything like that." His eyes pled with her to understand. "But Hermione, she got so angry, and Ron just looked so confused and … hurt … like it was wrong of me to even look, like there was something wrong with me for wanting to. Like I was going to turn into the next Voldemort or something. Is that what you all think, that I'm going to turn into Voldemort?"

Ginny didn't respond right away, but looked lost in desperate thought. "No. No, you won't, Harry. No one thinks that," she told him.

"It's not like I even _want_ to use those things, Ginny. I don't! But sometimes I wonder … how am I supposed to defeat him if I don't know anything about him? I don't know anything about the Dark Arts, and how do I fight them if I don't know what they are? I hate the thought of learning things like that, and of the possibility that I might _have_ to use it, but Merlin, if I have to defeat him, I want to be prepared, you know?" he asked, with conviction and a bit of anger.

Ginny looked at him sadly. "It just … she doesn't understand, Harry."

Harry didn't have to ask what she meant. He knew what it was that Hermione didn't understand that he and Ginny did, and not only because it was probably the only thing. She didn't know what it was like to feel Voldemort infiltrate your mind and your body, to feel tainted and dirty because of it. She didn't understand what it felt like to be under the control of him, to know that he was using you to hurt yourself, and you were completely powerless to stop it.

And then he did something that he hadn't done in a very long time. He cried. It wasn't more than a sob, one anguished sob that tore at Ginny's heart as she heard it, and a single tear falling down his cheek, violently swiped away. The redhead shifted on the bed and wrapped her arms around Harry, whether or not it was welcome, rubbing his back, offering as much comfort as she could. He refused to cry more, though Ginny knew it was still there, waiting for the moment when it could come crashing to the surface. One of these days, Harry was going to crash, and all she could do about it was make sure to be there along with Ron and Hermione.

When she felt him relax enough, she broke away and faced him on the bed. "Harry, I love Hermione like a sister, and I know she's practically a genius, but she doesn't know everything. She doesn't know what it's like to feel spoiled by him, to know that you'll always have some impure part of him lingering inside you. It makes you want to fight him. I know how you feel. I do. I want him dead, for what he did to me. And for all he's done to you. You'll do what you have to, and you'll know if it's wrong. Listen to your own instincts, all right? They won't lead you astray. If I know anything, it's that you would never do anything you didn't think was right."

Harry looked away. While it was nice that someone felt that way, he didn't know if it was true. _Would_ he always do what he thought was right? In the past, that may have been true. Of course he'd tried to protect the stone, tried to protect Ginny, kept Sirius from being kissed by a Dementor … all of those things had been instinctually right. But now things weren't so simple. Some decisions weren't black and white, and Harry knew that now. Besides, what did it matter if he did what he thought was right if things ended worse than they ever would have otherwise? He had thought he'd been doing the right thing, going after Sirius in the Ministry, but Sirius had never even _been_ there.

"What if that isn't true?" he finally asked quietly, as much to himself as to Ginny. He looked back over at her. "What if I forget what's right and what's wrong and I turn out to be just bad as him? What if I really _do_ turn into Voldemort?"

"_Harry_, that's not going to happen," Ginny insisted. "He's a monster. He doesn't care about anyone or anything, except himself. You could never be like that. If you ever _did_ do anything wrong it would be in trying to help one of your friends, someone you care about. And because of that you could never become Voldemort, because he would never do anything for anyone else."

Ginny looked at Harry with pleading eyes, begging him to believe her. She reached out and took one of his hands in hers.

"I don't know what else to follow, besides my instincts, you know? So I won't know it if I do." He paused and met her eyes. "Will you promise me … will you make sure I don't? Will you tell me if I do something wrong, if …?"

"Of course I would. I'm your friend, or, at least, I think I am. Harry, why do you believe that you don't deserve to be loved by anyone? That no one _could_ love you? It isn't true."

Harry was silent for a moment, and Ginny had to hold tight to his hand as he tried to pull it away. He finally gave up, but still refused to answer. Did he _really_ believe that?

"It doesn't matter. I would never let you go through anything alone. I'll be with you no matter what happens, until Voldemort is dead and no longer a threat? Ok?"

Harry nodded. "Ok. Gin, I … I think I want to be alone for awhile now. Really this time. I just need to think for a little while."

Ginny considered this for a moment and decided that it was all right to leave him for now. She was only beginning to see just how much there was to Harry that she had never realized before … things she thought that Hermione and Ron didn't even realize. She didn't know much about his life outside Hogwarts, besides the fact that he lived with unpleasant relatives, but she was starting to wonder just how unpleasant they were. With that, and everything he had been through with Voldemort, he was bound to have issues. She had been so infatuated with him that she had never seen it, but now that she had decided she was going to be his friend and hope for nothing more, she was determined to make sure that her friend was all right.

"All right. But promise me you'll come knock on my door if you need anything at all."

"I will," Harry told her, and she believed him.

He stood along with her, and both of them looked to the door. But instead of turning and moving to it, Ginny took a step closer to Harry, closing the space between them and pulling him into a hug. Harry was still for a moment, surprised, but then he allowed his arms to snake around her and held her tightly for a moment, letting her warmth seep into him. When they broke apart, Ginny was looking up at Harry, and Harry stared back down at her.

He never even realized that they were slowly moving closer together until their lips touched. Intrigued, Harry didn't break away. This was much different from kissing Cho, though different in a good or bad way he couldn't decide. Her lips were dry but soft. Ginny deepened the kiss and Harry allowed her to, thinking that the new wetness felt odd. When it ended, Harry found himself looking into Ginny's shining brown eyes. Never very eloquent in the first place, as Snape often enjoyed pointing out, Harry was at a complete loss for words.

Ginny's lower lip pouted out. "I … I just had to know," she explained very softly.

Harry was suddenly able to place the emotion he saw reflected in her eyes. Regret. "Ginny …"

"We're fine, Harry. Friends. I should go finish my letter to Dean."

Harry nodded and gave her a lopsided smile. He watched her move to the door before adding, quietly, "Thanks, Gin."

"Anytime, Harry. I mean that, so don't forget it."

He didn't respond, and so she left, slipping out the door and gently clicking it shut behind her. Harry let out a very long breath, and collapsed back onto the bed. He was now even more confused. It had been good to talk to Ginny, to listen to her tell him that he wasn't evil. She understood what it was like to have had something taken away by Voldemort, just like he did, and, right now, it wasn't something that Ron or Hermione could relate to. Harry sincerely hoped that they would never be able to. Perhaps that was part of the reason he felt so guilty for dragging them along to the Ministry.

Silently, he curled up on the bed. He was much calmer than before, but for a feeling inside as though he was being torn into pieces.

xXxXxXx

It was some time later that there was another knock on the door. He wasn't sure who to expect this time; he thought it might have been Ginny again, or Ron wanting to go to bed, or possibly Remus or Mrs. Weasley, coming to check on him after the meeting. He was quite surprised when it turned out to be Hermione on the other side of the door. He didn't say anything and neither did she for a very long moment, until he finally stepped aside, allowing her to enter the room. Hermione slipped past him and went to Ron's bed, where she sat down on the very edge, looking uncomfortable. Harry shut the door and took a step in her direction, then changed his mind and stayed standing right where he was.

"What do you want?" he asked. When she didn't answer, he continued. "Giving me a chance to fess up about what I was reading before you do it for me? Gee, Hermione, you're so generous."

He wasn't sure where the bitterness came from. He thought that he's calmed down after his talk with Ginny.

"Harry, I don't want to fight with you!" she blurted out in response.

"Coulda fooled me," Harry mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and jutting his chin in the air like a petulant child.

Hermione apparently chose to ignore his behavior, though Harry wasn't sure why. If there was one thing Hermione couldn't stand almost as much as ignorance, it was immaturity.

"Harry, when you said that you'd already been forced to … well … did you mean that Voldemort used one of those rituals to – to come back, the night of the third task?"

"You're a smart girl, Hermione, you figure out what I meant."

"Harry," she said warningly. Then, more softly, "I didn't realize, all right? I just … I worry …"

"So you _do_ think I'm going to turn into the next Voldemort or something," Harry said, trying to stand his ground. He was torn between feeling angry and just plain sick.

Hermione's mouth dropped open. "Harry! No! How could you think that?"

"Then why are you so worried about me reading Dark Arts books, Hermione?" Harry asked accusingly. "Why would it worry you unless you're afraid that I'm going to use them and turn into some monster like _him_?"

"Harry, I'm not worried about what you're going to do, I'm worried about _you_. You haven't been handling Sirius's death well … I don't think you've really been handling it at all so much as trying to pretend it never happened! How do I know you aren't going to read those books and end up hurting yourself?"

Harry's breath caught in his throat. He couldn't help himself; he took a few quick steps and collapsed onto his bed, leaning over his knees as though his breath had been knocked out of him. Hermione studied the hunched back of her friend and wondered if she should go to him, but she was afraid of what his reaction would be if she did.

"You think I'm going to try and hurt myself?" Harry asked in a wounded voice. "Do you really think that of me, that I would do something like that? No, trust me, that's the _last_ thing I would do. I may hate the people in this world sometimes, but I wouldn't ever do that. I know my place. I'm not going to try and kill myself so you can stop worrying."

Hermione didn't understand exactly what he was saying, but Harry hadn't expected her to. Instead, she latched on to what she had understood.

"Harry, I never meant that. I just meant that maybe you would try something … something you thought was a good idea because you were blinded by grief, something that could cause you harm. I never meant you'd do it on purpose. I –"

"Hermione, just stop," Harry said with a labored breath.

Hermione shut her mouth and slumped on the bed, feeling entirely defeated. At the beginning of the summer, she had been able to tell through Harry's letters that he wasn't doing well, but she had hoped that coming here, being with his friends and surrogate family, would help him through his grief. Yet it seemed like there was nothing anyone could do to get through to him.

"Ginny said you wouldn't understand," Harry said, breaking her thoughts.

"Ginny said?" she asked sharply.

"Yes," Harry replied calmly. "She said it was different for you, and I guess she was right. I've always been different, so I've never noticed. But she understands, because he's a part of her, too, ever since the Chamber."

"Oh," Hermione said in a ghostly whisper. "You're right … I'll never understand the way she does."

Harry caught the wistfulness in her tone. "I certainly hope you don't," he assured her. "I don't want anyone else close to me to have to feel that stain. Consider yourself lucky."

Hermione nodded, but there was a faraway look in her eyes.

"Seriously, Hermione," Harry repeated then, feeling it necessary. "I never want you to have to experience something like that. _No one_ deserves to."

Hermione didn't respond right away, and Harry wondered if she was even still listening to him. When she did look up at him again, she looked very, hopelessly sad.

"Harry, I … I don't understand. What happened? At dinner, you seemed to be doing well, everyone was. You and Ron were joking around with his brothers, everyone seemed relaxed, almost happy. And then, after you went back for your book, you came to the library in such a horrid mood. Something must have happened. Why won't you tell me?"

Harry let out a long sigh and leaned over his legs, his elbows resting on his thighs. He began running his hand through his hair, massaging his scalp. "I … do I have to tell you about it? I don't even want to think about it."

Hermione frowned. "I can't help you if I don't know what happened."

"Maybe I don't want your help," Harry sneered back, feeling guilty the moment he saw the hurt look on Hermione's face. "I ran into Snape, all right?" he finally admitted. "Do I even need to say more?"

"I wish you would," Hermione answered truthfully.

"He was just being Snape. You know what I mean." He felt a constriction around his chest as he remembered the conversation, and all of Snape's nasty, true words.

"Harry, what did he _say_ to you?" Hermione asked, distressed by her friend's reaction.

"He told me I'm responsible for Sirius's death!" Harry shot back. "And for once he's actually right!"

It was the first time Harry had ever said it to Hermione, to any of his friends really. For as much as his mind had dwelled on his own guilt, he had spoken of it very little. Only to Remus, really, and only because he knew that Remus must be missing Sirius just as much, if not more, than him.

"Harry, you can't actually believe that's true!" Hermione protested quietly but forcefully. "I mean, I know it's hard … I know it must be. But you can't think that … that it was your fault."

Harry looked down into his hands and avoided Hermione's gaze. "You wouldn't understand."

"Make me," she insisted.

"You won't!" he yelled. "You won't. It's different, all right? Just … please, just stop trying to help."

"I'll _never_ stop trying to help you, Harry," Hermione said softly but with a resolute determination that Harry recognized in his friend.

"You're too stubborn for your own good," Harry responded, in a tone which did not reveal whether he thought this was a good or bad thing, which was quite convenient as he did not know.

"Probably why the hat actually put me into Gryffindor when I insisted upon it," Hermione mused, sending an unsure grin in his direction. They had, apparently, effectively changed the subject, and though she was reticent to let it drop, knowing that Harry had many issues, particularly over Sirius's death, that he hadn't dealt with, she was really just relieved not to be arguing with him anymore.

"You would have been a good Ravenclaw," Harry relented. "But I'm glad you ended up in Gryffindor."

Hermione was pleased by his statement, but she noticed that behind the reluctant smile his eyes were dull and sad-looking. She stood from where she sat on Ron's bed and went to Harry, wrapping her arms around his hunched figure. He did not react, but neither did he protest, so she kept holding onto him, and was gratified when he let out a long sigh and she felt his body relax.

"Everything will work out all right," she murmured as she gave him one last squeeze then looked down at him sadly. "You look exhausted. Get some good sleep tonight, ok?"

Harry, who hadn't known exactly how to react when she thrown her arms around him unexpectedly, didn't reply. He was still trying to figure out what he was feeling; it was a more daunting task than he would have thought. Hermione frowned but still moved towards the door.

"You're going to bed?" Harry asked.

"Yes. I'm tired; I can't read anymore tonight," she replied.

Harry raised his eyebrows, but his back was to Hermione now and she didn't see it. "Not going to sneak down after the Order meeting to scrounge details?"

"No, I'll leave that to Ron. I think he wants to see Charlie and Bill and the twins before they leave."

An eerie stillness, completely silent, overcame them for a moment before Harry nodded. Hermione waited in the doorway for just another moment, but when tears started to fill her eyes, she stepped out into the hallway, and pulled the door firmly shut behind her.

xXxXxXx

End chapter.

Well, I hope you liked it. Please let me know even if you didn't!


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